Decade of Crimson
by LightningQuartz
Summary: Sequel to Finding Shouyou. A novel has been delivered to everyone that was important to the death of Hinata Shouyou. Only, nobody knows who wrote it.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

 _Click._

This was good.

 _Click._

 _Click._

 _Click._

Truly wonderful.

 _Click._

 _Click._

Tetsurou pulled away from the object of his profession, very eager to see this sight without a lens. He loved his job. His objective for the week was rare birds across the Kanto region, not difficult nor time-consuming, but allowed him to view many beautiful sights, one of the few perks of a career in photography.

His current subject was fiery red with a black beak, almost like a manga character turned bird, truly beautiful against the bland, budless trees. Spring was _supposed_ to arrive weeks ago, but instead, here he was, tugging the thin material of his gloves further along his hands to avoid shaking, and consequently blurring his material. Dinner would not pay for itself, after all.

After cataloguing exactly sixteen rare species, though, he wondered, if they were _that_ easy to find and photograph, then were they truly rare at all? Were they even worth the six figures that he'd been promised? Worth being put on the second most popular travel magazine in Japan? Tetsurou did not have an answer, nor did he wish to question to generosity of the _second_ best travel magazine's decisions on what was deemed worthy of putting in aforementioned travel magazine. Japan's _second_ best travel magazine. Not that he was complaining about _only_ being sought out by the _second best travel magazine in Japan._

"Only…" Tetsurou chuckled without humor, rubbing numb fingers over his equally numb nose, his scars always hurt in the cold and he was started to develop a migraine from this endless winter. The chill made getting home awful, the outside too chilly, the underground even worse, but the train was a mix of both eternal burning and bone-chilling frost. All these years in Japan, he still couldn't figure out how a train managed to be both too hot and too cold at the same time. It's not as though he hadn't given it enough thought by now.

As always, he stopped by the convenient store, conveniently half a block away from his dwelling, and never particularly crowded. Even if it were to happen, which was only twice, maybe three times, if his memory serves him correctly. Each of those incidents in which he had needed to wait more than five minutes to reach the register had been both humorous and embarrassing. Summer heat tended to draw the elderly, particularly old ladies, from their homes and directly into proximity of one, Kuuro Tetsurou. How he missed the heat, the sun beaming down upon him, allowing him the ever wonderful gift of wearing short sleeved shirts, and dare he say, shorts. Tetsurou scoffs at the prospect.

He really misses summer.

Nevertheless, as always, he stops at the convenient store, the one closest to his home, or he assumes it to be, though he's never really done the math. His _preferred_ convenient store, then. He settles his own debate with a smirk, then steps inside of his preferred convenient store with the intention of picking up dinner, as he always does.

Being rather low on funds, until he uploads all of these pictures, labels them, writes an article that may go something like the following, in his head, at least.

 _"Japan is the home" scratch that, "Japan has—" No. "The flora and fauna of Japan share a dichotomy unlike anywhere else in the world, it is both in harmony and discord with that of the culture that represents its people." Purr~fect._

He almost pats himself on the back, almost, but decides to wait until later, until he's home, at least.

Tetsurou makes his way to the other end of the store and begins to stare down all his options, all of them wrapped in plastic and all of them less than 500 yen. A most perfect price for someone with just below 500 yen in his wallet.

250 yen and some extracted pleasantries later, Tetsurou exits his preferred convenient store with a plastic bag, inside said plastic bag is what he calls dinner, but has colloquially named Udon with vegetables, a bottle of green tea, a napkin, and a receipt for his dinner. All in all, a successful purchase and outing, but he's drained and is rather tempted to eat and then rest, but, work beckons. Six figures do not miraculously deliver themselves to the unworthy, though, if Tetsurou were being honest, which he often is, he'd definitely give himself the title of: Worthy.

Unfortunately, work remains and it will be done. _Before_ he sleeps.

The heat of his apartment almost makes him reconsider. Almost.

 _Rebooting._

He most definitely did almost fall asleep while taking his shoes off, nor did he rest his head on the counter top once he was seated in front his meal.

The udon was, unsurprisingly, filling but lackluster. At least he got some vegetables inside of his decaying body, though. The green tea, also a _preferred_ preference of his, was, as always, a very decent way to wash down an unforgettable meal, thank goodness.

Tetsurou disposed of the trash his meal had surmised, and by disposed, he, ever so gently, placed the udon container and the now empty green tea bottle back into the plastic bag they had come from, and left it on the counter.

 _A mess for morning me, as payback for being responsible._

His logic: infallible.

His stride: confident.

Tetsurou whirled around, setting forth towards his desired destination of his work desk/dining table, both of which –though they were the same piece of furniture – were covered in mail, beer cans, and most importantly, his laptop.

Unfortunately, Tetsurou did not make it to the laptop, nor could he completely cross the room, for he was so frozen in place by another auspicious item which was perched upon his dining table turned desk.

A book.

 _The_ book, he reminded himself, terrified down to his very core. The shivering of winter had been erased only to be replaced by something infinitely more terrifying: the past. His past, specifically. His past with none other than Hinata Shouyou.

 _God._

Even thinking the name brought chills upon chills that crawled down his spine. A whirlwind of the past sprung itself upon him, and here, alone in his one-room apartment, he would find no solace in the distraction of others. He had only himself to blame, and he could do nothing but accept it.

That night, a rainy night, he recalled it so easily due how much it had ruined his life, despite what the events of what was to unfold because of it.

Tetsurou, along with Kenma, riding the train from Tokyo all the way to Miyagi. To protect Kenma's rival turned… boyfriend. He hated that word, an awful description of what truly was.

 _What could have been,_ he thought grimly.

Kenma's plan, for it truly was Kenma's plan until Tetsurou had ruined it. They didn't need all of their alley cats to protect one stupid, friend-stealing brat, he remembered that description he gave every moment of every day. How foolish he had been to miscalculate so widely.

Just the two of them, on the train. The train to Miyagi, specifically, to Karasuno territory, in which they would give Oikawa Tooru, who had _supposedly,_ Tetsurou also remembered this qualifier of what had transpired, how blind he'd truly been to the suffering of someone he… knew.

Kenma, the more nervous of the two, was shaking, not just from the chill that the rain brought.

"It's just nerves." Kenma said, in a very Kenma-like way. Tetsurou had laughed. A crack of thunder accompanied it, adding to the drama of the situation. He'd take care of Oikawa and maybe, hopefully, get Hinata out of the way, to make him cease from stealing his best friend. His greedy thoughts accompanied him all the way to the Miyagi train station.

Kenma texted Hinata.

Hinata texted back.

They'd meet in the forest, Kenma would wait behind, as to avoid any stray punches, Tetsurou's orders or the entire mission was a no-go.

Kenma sighed, skulked around outside of a convenient store, Hinata's preferred one, Tetsurou imagined. Kenma's hood was up, and told Tetsurou, in detail, how terrified _Shouyou_ had been, how much hope he could feel as he watched the small boy clutch his cell phone in shaking hands. He really wish he didn't know that.

Eventually, the scene, as always, unfolded behind Tetsurou's eyes. His most frequent nightmare had only gained in quality and duration since that evening. Oikawa's wild eyes are the most striking. They make him feel fear unlike any other. He may have foiled Kenma's plan in such a way, but he couldn't dare to imagine the chain of events that _would_ have happened if he'd brought even more people into that forest in Miyagi.

Lightning cracks, Oikawa moves. Fluid as ever, under the guise of night, it's almost impossible for Tetsurou to see him. He sees the knife though, fluid, an arc of beautiful steel. Beautiful, yet aimed at his neck, intentions clear as day. Oikawa wanted to hurt him. He steps backwards, his knees buckling and trembling and Shouyou—Hinata… jumps in front of him.

He watches, petrified, to the things that Oikawa does to Hinata Shouyou with a knife. The period of time is infinite and short enough that Kenma isn't worried until it is far, far too late.

The lunge that Hinata took for him, something that Oikawa had no doubt intended to kill him, Tetsurou, with brought out the most sickening of noises, though he had barely heard it over the rain and the sound of his pulse trying to deafen him.

Tetsurou sat down on the floor, unable to escape from reliving this and too weak to continue bearing his shoulders.

The silver of the blade, the only thing that was visible on Oikawa, besides his bloodthirsty eyes, was sunk into Hinata's chest, no doubt fatal without immediate attention, unfortunately, the scrawny middle blocker only received the attentions of Oikawa and himself. Tetsurou couldn't escape then, and he still can't not even today.

His vision of the real world is starting to get black around the edges, but the rerun of Hinata getting cut up remained perfectly clear.

Oikawa wasted no time, Tetsurou wondered if he even cared that A. He, himself, was unharmed, aside from tripping on wet leaves and that B. He just stabbed the target of his affections and abuse.

Hinata gasped, blood glinting his teeth under what little moonlight there is. "Kuhh-" He gasps, a mixture of groaning and screaming with a too hoarse voice. At the time, Tetsurou had been convinced, without a doubt that Hinata's dying breaths would be for Kenma. He'd realized, only later, that Hinata had not only taken a knife for _him,_ but was urging him to abandon him. Tetsurou couldn't. His legs were unresponsive to the panic flooding his brain.

Hinata did not die quickly. Oikawa made sure of that. The blade, artfully used, roamed all over Hinata's body. Ridding his clothing and his manhood with simple strokes of his knife, Oikawa smiled. Hinata screamed. Tetsurou vomited then, and as well in real life every time he lived it. Hinata croaked and moaned, but eventually fell silent. He thought – _prayed –_ that he was dead, but tears continued to fall and they made eye contact. Something about staring into the eyes of someone who was about to die was the most terrifying and petrifying things he'd ever witnessed. He couldn't look away, not then, and not now. This was his curse.

More and more cuts were made, Hinata was more river than man… human, at this point, his rivers were red and frequent. Tetsurou was not there when they stopped bleeding, but he was there to witness Oikawa performing his coup de grace, a simple slash to the throat, Hinata died choking on his own blood, too weak to stop the bleeding himself.

It didn't end there.

Oikawa rolled Hinata over.

Tetsurou screamed.

Eventually, he caught Oikawa's attention.

It was just the two of them now.

Oikawa was more terrifying now that the bloodlust and… actual lust had worn off.

"Kuuro-san." Oikawa greeted, his first words since this eternity in hell had started. Tetsurou swallowed loudly, unable to respond. Oikawa smiled at him. "Cat got your tongue?" The other male taunted, as if they'd known each other for years and Tetsurou didn't just watch the brutal murder of someone he'd… known.

"I'm not going to kill you." Oikawa says, standing once more to draw his pants around his waist once more. "But I am going to play with you." Tetsurou, finding himself a capable human being, finally managed to get his lower half working. He tried to run, but one did not simply get Best Setter award for running at an average pace.

Oikawa tackled him, pinning him to the ground with strength of someone who could easily snap his neck. He almost wished that Oikawa had.

Fortunately, when it _him_ being cut up, he didn't have to watch it. Didn't even have to keep his eyes open as Oikawa slashed and slashed and slashed, over and over. Tetsurou had repented, and when Oikawa was done with him, the setter left.

Unsure what to do, Tetsurou waited, and waited, and waited.

Kenma found him.

Kenma found Hinata, also.

He screamed, cried, and eventually helped him to his feet. Hinata forgotten, at least, for the time being.

The memory of watching Hinata get castrated, mutilated and raped was one he could never forget, but as an oath to the person who had saved his life. He never uttered a word of it anybody, save a few details to Kenma. He owed his friend that much.

How those recollections made its way to a novel, he has no idea.

Why he received a novel in the mail that depicts every moment of Hinata Shouyou's life since he met Kenma was beyond him. Punishment was the only thing that made sense.

 _The Crimson Aegis._ His punishment for not trusting Kenma, his punishment for not being honest, his punishment for just… being a really shitty person.

He wanted to know who wrote the book, he wanted them to know how much of it was his fault, how _all of it_ was his fault.

Kuuro Tetsurou, currently employeed by Japan's second best travel magazine, was the true cause of death for Hinata Shouyou.


	2. Chapter 2

Hinata Sato would hardly consider herself a lucky person, but watching from the second to last row in a gymnasium, with said gymnasium's temperature resembling a sauna moreso than an extension on a learning institution, with a pair of binoculars, as her daughter _finally_ received her diploma, she couldn't help but feel like the luckiest person in the world.

It was magnificent, it was perfect, and her camera was bordering on melting. Did that stop her from snapping hundreds of more pictures? Not in the slightest. The heat, if nothing, motivated more than it abated her enthusiasm.

Her daughter seemed to feel the same way, jumping around in her school uniform pointing out her ribbon to everyone in the room. Her smile – _oh god her smile—_ was infectious, lovely, perfectly befitting for a girl—a _woman!-_ on her graduation day. She couldn't have been happier for her daughter, or herself, it seemed, as she too found herself grinning madly, even as sweat was pouring down her face, most likely soiling her makeup, not that she could put any particular thought into that, not even for a second. Today was her daughter's day!

The excitement dulled after the ceremony official began, with speeches being delivered by, what seemed like, every employee the school has employed ever, since it was founded. It was… interesting, in that it was practically putting her to sleep. By the time a _student_ came up to the podium, she almost lost her composure and had to bite the inside of her lip to avoid screaming any profanities.

But of course, once her daughter stood up and approached the stage, hand already outstretched for her diploma, and smile withstanding all of the speeches her mother couldn't, she couldn't help but smile brightly as well, animosity for long, drawn out speeches forgotten.

Then the rest of the names.

So many students.

Surely there weren't _this_ many when she was in high school.

Sato sighed, and waited.

Then her daughter began running over, the graduation _finally_ complete.

Her daughter, clearly unused to wearing something formal, shoes specifically, was tripping over herself, and nearly landed on her face by the time she arrived in her mother's arms for a hug. Neither of them were embarrassed though, it would seem, her daughter snuggled closer, and closer still, despite Sato's breasts _screaming_ for release. Eventually though, the hug did end, her boobs stopped aching, and her beautiful daughter was waving her diploma and begging to be taken out to somewhere _fancy._

Sato, of course, would oblige.

This was her daughter's day, after all.

They went home, after that, to change into something more comfortable and more appropriate to a fancy eating establishment.

It also gave Sato time to think about the location of anything of the sort in Miyagi. They'd have to drive somewhere, surely. She was fine with that, even more time to spend with her daughter, who was grinning goofily even when they had to walk home because the bus was full.

Sato smiled too, though not as maniacally as her daughter had throughout the entire day so far, she just hoped the child – _woman-_ wouldn't creep out any of the wait staff during their _fancy_ outing.

"Now…" Sato said, staring into the rather barren abyss that was her wardrobe. "What to wear?" She was not one for fancy outings, her upbringing hadn't afforded her many opportunities to culture herself on fancy dining establishments, their location, nor what one would wear to such a place. An unfortunate situation, but as always, a Hinata makes due with what they have.

Long sleeves seemed like an easy enough choice, but decided between pink or purple was a burden in itself. Purple would be too presumptious, she wasn't royalty, just celebrating the day with her daughter; and the pink, though of the same design and material as the purple one, identical in all but color, held something _deeper._ It felt fancy, but also made her feel incredibly exposed, despite evidence, in the form of her bedroom mirror, proving otherwise.

"Aha!" She exclaimed, pulling out, yet another top, again, identical in all but color to the previous two – they were having sale, sue her- but this one was _black._ Surely that spoke mountains about how formal she was! Without further thought, she stripped herself of the pink shirt and replaced it with the black one and began buttoning.

Now came the difficult part. She was wearing a black top, which was fine, except all of her pants, save her work pants, were all blue, and so happened to made of denim. Truly a terrible, terrible mistake on her. Completely confused, and out of her league as far as what denim, _if_ denim, constituted as acceptable in a fancy establishment, she pulled a pair on at random, as well as some socks, all of which were black as well.

The shoes were, fortunately, very simple. Sato, as a make-doer, owned one pair of shoes for formal events, and they were black, but heeled. She'd never worn them before, save for the one time five minutes before she bought them at the same sale as most of her wardrobe.

She tugged them on. Then tugged them right back off, hissing. She didn't remember them being that tight in the store, those many, many years ago. Sighing, and taking a step back, Sato took off her socks and slid her feet back into the cursed pair of shoes. It was, unfortunately, an exact fit. Her feet were going to get very sweaty _and_ there was no barrier preventing that sweat from sinking into the shoes. She cursed the shoes once more, then rushed over to her bathroom and began brushing with passion. Her hair, despite being straight, a normality for all but a few of the Hinata clan, her daughter being an exception, was being very, _very_ uncooperative.

Taking a moment, she put a lid on any possible screams or any other loud noises that she may or may feel the need to emit as a consequence of her next action. Then, with all of her force, she tugged straight down with the brush, the clump was ripped from her scalp in the most painful way possible and was currently clogging the bristles on her brush. But at least her hair looked nice. With that, and a spritz of perfume that has seen more use for her daughter than her, despite Sato being the one to purchase it, she was finally ready for their outing.

Sato was about to scream for her daughter when she walked into the living room, only to find said daughter already leaning against the wall by the door, dressed in an entirely new outfit, but, much to Sato's dismay, one of equal inappropriateness for the fancy outing her daughter had asked for. Surely a pink hoodie, pink skirt, and pink shoes weren't the new fancy. She thought about changing, maybe her first instinct was right, that pink was fancy…

Instead, she took another step forward, grabbed her purse and keys from the living room table and approached her daughter, grin slipping back into place. "Ready to go?" Her daughter jumped, either not expected her or from Sato reigniting her excitement. Her daughter nodded, "Yup!" Chirped in addition as the door to their home was swung open.

They didn't talk on the way to the car, and it was only a few minutes after they, well, she, started to drive, aimlessly seeking a fancy restaurant, before she spoke. "Have you heard back from any universities yet?" Sato knew that universities would have contacted her or her daughter sooner regarding furthering her daughter's education, but small talk was not her specialty and the wibble-wobble on the radio was not helping her concentration. Her daughter shrugged, looking for the first time that day, dejected.

"Just one." She murmured.

Sato almost scoffed, one was new, as opposed to last week's zero.

"Is there something wrong with that one?" She asked, ever the concerned mother, especially today.

Her daughter, again, shrugged, but remained tight-lipped about the subject.

Sato kept driving in the almost quiet, the radio only a series of sounds compared to the ocean of doubt that was causing a storm in her mind. _What, exactly, did just one mean? Sure, it wasn't the one, but she needs to be thinking about the future…_ She almost scoffed to herself, despite her daugher's status as a young woman, she was still just a child, one that couldn't think about the future without everything going just her way. Sato had been the same way, and her mother mostly likely, and her mother's mother. _She'll understand, in time._

It took nearly three hours of driving before a restaurant appeared that looked anything close to fancy. Just on the outskirts of Tokyo, fortunately, they didn't have to drive in the city to find something suitable. Sato parked, or rather, wedged her vehicle on a slice of unmarked curb and called it a day. She cursed the cramped nature of Tokyo only for a moment before gathering her thoughts, her purse, and her daughter and headed towards the fancy glass walls of their destination.

The hostess was plain looking enough, with a black shirt… and denim pants… Only when this plain looking woman step out from behind her podium with menus firmly in hand did Sato get a glimpse at her shoes. The hostess, and the wait staff, she noticed after looking around for a moment, was wearing the same outfit as she was, or, she supposed, _she_ was wearing the same outfit as _them._ Never had she been more mortified in her entire life, and pledged, henceforth, to never step into…

"Welcome to Narisawa!"

Never step into Narisawa ever again.

Sato bowed.

The hostess was staring at her when she came back up.

Sato swallowed.

"Let me show you to your table."

Their table was decked in leather and she, much to her embarrassment and Natsu's delight, _squeaked_ as she slid into one of the comfortable booths.

"Your waiter will be with your shortly." Said the hostess before being whisked away by another clump of customers that had entered sometime after they had.

She turned to her daughter, "So?" She asked, smile building on her face, she really wished she'd brought her camera.

"So?" Natsu parroted, orange hair twirling about a finger; Sato could make out the distinct sound of Natsu's feet pounding against the bottom of the booth.

"How does it feel? Graduating, I mean."

Natsu shrugged, "It feels okay, took longer than I thought it would." She muttered bitterly.

Sato laughed, about to barrel another question when they were suddenly cast in shadow by their waiter. The man, barely so, much like her Natsu, bowed to them kindly before whipping out two thick folders. The folders, obviously, turned out to be menus, though she'd never expected the amount of variety, nor did she expect to find _five digit specials._ It was, to say the least, overwhelming.

"I-I'll have a glass of uh," She flipped quickly through the menu until she found drinks, only to find out she couldn't pronounce anything that had alcohol in it, and she _refused_ to point at the menu like a child.

"Red… wine." She grit out, thoroughly embarrassed for the third time since entering the establishment. Fine dining was so out of her comfort zone.

The waiter looked at her with confusion, then pity, then smiled at her. "Got'cha!" He chirped informally, surely an attempt at making them more comfortable.

"And for you, miss?" The man said, turning his head to Natsu.

"Uh…" Her daughter replied, elegant as a high school graduate could be. "Water, please."

The man scribbled it down on a notepad he had somehow conjured, and sped off. "I'll be back to take your order in a minute!" He shouted from several tables away.

Sato let out a sigh, relieved.

Natsu, for the first time in forever, seemed to perk up.

"This place fancy enough for you, _miss?_ " Sato teased causing Natsu to giggle quietly, a truly serene sound.

"Why yes, _old lady,_ I suppose it will do." Came the witty reply, the brat lacing her words in some pretentious accent.

They both laughed.

Soon, their waiter returned with alcohol and water.

Sato inhaled the glass in one gulp, trying to convince herself that nine-hundred yen for a _half_ glass of wine wasn't a crime. She ordered another one, she'd be fine to drive later.

Natsu ended up ordering chicken katsu, something they could have made at home. Deciding to take a risk, Sato ordered the same thing.

"So, about this college." Sato tried after the alcohol loosened her up a little.

Natsu tensed, "W-what about it?"

"Do you want to go?"

It had been, understandably, a sore spot for both of them. Trying to find an affordable education while Natsu focused on what schools didn't look ugly.

"I think so… yeah." Came the tentative reply.

Sato nodded, "I think it'll be good for you, getting away from this place…" Though she was sincere in her statement, her heart couldn't help but clench painfully at the thought of being left alone.

Their food came and went in a flurry of scraping spoons. They definitely drew some looks.

Natsu begged for dessert. Not a single one lower than four digits, she could feel her wallet screaming in terror, but she agreed; and then ordered something for herself as well.

It was her daughter's day, after all.

They giggled over ice cream and chocolate.

When it came time to pay, Sato didn't feel like laughing anymore. Dutifully though, she handed over the bills, feeling a little robbed, but completely satisfied that her daughter had decided to warm up.

She drove them home.

Natsu picked the songs on the radio.

It was her daughter's day, after all.

Until it wasn't.

Until…

Until Natsu decided she was old enough to ask the wrong questions.

"Mama…" Natsu asked once they'd entered their home, her daughter, now a woman, was trembling in the living room. She had been staring at the ground when she said it, but Sato could hear the tension, the tears, in her daugher's voice.

"Can you tell me what happened to Shouyou?"

Sato had found peace in the death of her nephew, her daughter's brother. She found peace in the fact that she would never, _ever_ talk about it again. She hated that she felt that way, hated that her brother's son had…

Her heart stopped, frozen over and chilled in the silence their home provided. She hated it.

"I thought you didn't remember Shouyou?" Sato asked, trying vainly to hold over this shredded illusion, to tug comfort back into her life.

"Shouyou… my brother…" Natsu blubbered, now sobbing completely, still shaking a leaf, so much so that she collapsed to the ground.

Natsu's head twitched, then again, and again, like a cog turning until finally she was looking right at her, _through_ her. Natsu had Shouyou's eyes.

Sato broke too.

All at once, years of forgetting and trampling over any emotion, any _memory_ , involving Shouyou, her nephew, had crumbled. The avalanche was overwhelming.

"He…" She started once she'd managed to catch her breath; her mind wandered drunkenly to her most secret possession. The book had been a mystery, dropped off like someone had just shoved it in with the rest of the mail. She almost threw it away with how out of place it looked. Until she opened it.

 _Hinata Shouyou…_

The book, from beginning to end, described the tragedy of a boy's life. She sped through it, considered setting the damn thing on fire, but… she kept it. How could she waste a gift like the one she'd been given?

Shouyou had been given back to her, just a slice, but it was better than nothing.

"He was killed… by someone he loved very much." Shouyou, as he did with everything, threw himself into something wholeheartedly, even his destructive relationship with Oikawa Tooru.

She couldn't find it in her to give the book to Natsu, to have her daughter _know,_ to experience herself, all the horrible things that Shouyou had lived through.

"Who was it?" Came the response, one she dreaded.

"His boyfriend at the time…" She replied without thinking.

"I miss him…"

Sato ran to her bedroom and slammed the door.

She missed him too.

She was missing too many people in her life.

Their parents… her brother… her nephew.

Everyone was moving further and further out of reach.

They didn't speak after Natsu's confession, her daughter packed, ready to be away from home. Sato sulked, wishing she'd stay but couldn't look into Shouyou's eyes for another second.

Finally, against her will, the day had arrived.

Moments before her daughter was scheduled to leave Sato ran into her bedroom again, she slid her hand under her mattress and pulled out a thick book. She hoped, more than anything, that she wouldn't regret this.

Before Natsu could slam the door on their home, and their relationship, Sato intercepted her.

She shoved the thing into her daugher's grip.

"Shouyou loved you more than anything, Natsu. I shouldn't have kept this from you."

Natsu stared at the object in her hands, then at her before launching herself.

The warmth of her daughter was something that she had missed, and will continue to miss.

"You'll miss the train." She said, not loosening her own grip for a long moment.

Once again, another brat with orange hair had weaved itself into her heart, and once again, they left her alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Bokuto Koutarou

Koutarou was tired.

Not that he'd let as such show on his face, not in front of Kazumi, and _definitely_ not in front of his son; he was mortified even thinking about how his child would react, his wife, not so much, though he was equally as mortified that he'd become so… complacent. It was hard, not living up to the legacy that had been passed down onto him.

Here, though, he felt no such remorse, he had no walls to keep up. He could just exist, be himself, the frowning young adult that he is.

The alcohol helped loosen him up as well, despite the taste.

His office turned _mancave_ was one of his few escapes, but held more significance than anything else. The walls were covered in posters and trophies from his youth, as well as his degree in Sports Science. His jersey, the bold white _4_ showcasing his position and title, his _previous_ position and title, was encased against the far wall; pretty much the only thing that separated the current room from being a complete copy of his high school bedroom was the lack of bed, though the couch did pull out.

Still, each time he escaped into his enclave, he couldn't shake the guilt that followed him. He _should_ be spending time with his wife and child, instead, he was on the couch in his office, with his head in his hands and alcohol on his tongue.

He was a really shitty father, and an ace, and a captain, and a friend… Koutarou was a shitty person in general.

He continued to mope for well over an hour before he forced his legs into standing and strode to the other end of the room, barely three steps until he was at the other end. Koutarou extended his arm, hand hesitating over one of the few books that resided in his bookshelf, it was also the most recent addition, and was just as prized as anything else in the room.

He fingered the golden lettering, admiring the delicate artistry for a moment before tucking it under his arm for the short journey back to the couch.

The pages split open where his bookmark had resided, only a portion of the way through the massive number of pages.

Koutarou began reading, consuming the words and experiences as if they were his own. It was refreshing, having his focus completely ensnared into a single task, something he hadn't been able to do since he'd graduated college, a shame really. He flicked through page after page slowly, admiring the penmanship, trying to picture each moment inside of his head as much as his psyche tried to push such scenes away. Eventually, the room grew darker and his eyes were straining with the lack of light; and instead of rectifying the problem with a flick of the switch, he simply stored his bookmark into the last page he'd read and closed the book. He'd continue more the next time he had the chance. He stood, ignoring the tingling in his legs from being immobile for so long and crossed the room once again to tuck the book back into its spot.

There was a knock at the door, a small one, indicating their identiy without further sound. Koutarou smiled, "Who is it?" He called back playfully.

"It's me!" A high pitched voice called back, followed by a fit of giggles.

"Me, huh? I don't remember any Me's living here…" He pondered, tapping his chin in thought despite the fact that the person on the other side of the door couldn't see him,

"Daddy!" The voice whined in rebuttal.

Koutarou silently wandered towards the door and before the knocker could react, he threw it open and snatched them up! His actions caused a shrill scream, but it had no effect on him, instead he shook the little body back and forth using all of his strength to make the intruder dizzy.

"Daddy!" The voice screeched, "Put me down!" Koutarou did not, instead he shook harder, and spun faster, a dangerous move to perform in the hallway of their home, but a risk he was willing to take.

Eventually though, he did put his son down, but not before claiming a few kisses on his now red cheeks, making sure to rub his stubbly face all over his son's, causing an uproar in laughter from the child.

"Let's get ready for bed." He suggested, though firmly enough that there was little room for question.

His son nodded, fluffy black hair wobbling all over the place. Koutarou ruffled it, making a further mess of it before guiding his son to the bathroom.

They peed, washed their hands, brushed their teeth and washed their faces in less than fifteen minutes, truly a record to behold.

Finally, it was time for the best part of the night.

"Read this one!" His son commanded, colorful book outstretched, and who was Koutarou to object to such a nice young man?

He read, made voices, gave kisses and half an hour later, his son was passed out in his bed. He decided to head that way too.

Kazumi was already in the bedroom when he arrived, she glanced at him when he entered, but buried her face inside of her laptop just as quickly.

He sighed.

Koutarou slipped off his glasses, shut off the lamp on his side of the bed, and promptly fell asleep, ignoring the iciness that the room held.

He woke up feeling exhausted, and that remained the case as he dressed himself and stumbled out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, he fixed rice and natto for the three of them despite him being the only one awake. He read the news on his phone, skipping past all the political drabble and skipping straight to the last section.

 _ **Newcomer Joins the Professional Volleyball Circuit**_

That piqued his interest more than anything else the page had to offer.

"A newbie…" He muttered, reading aloud as well as in his head as he scanned the pixelated text, "blah blah blah… scouted for the national team."

That was interesting, newbies almost _never_ got onto the national team.

"Good for him…" He muttered anyway, not that the guy could hear him, even if he yelled, they didn't even include a name, just a picture that, now that he was examining it, looked kind of… _familiar._ Unfortunately, he did not time to focus on such things, it was time to wake up the house.

First, he went to his son's room, not even bothering to knock knowing that it wouldn't do anything; instead, he walked up to the child sized bed and firmly gripped either side of the mattress before shaking the thing with all of his strength. An unorthodox method, surely, but one that garnered results without fail.

His mission was complete _not_ when he heard the faint growling of an adolescent, but when he finally got a verbal greeting, a mistake he had made far too many times in the past couple years.

"Morning daddy…" The brat groaned, rubbing at his eyes.

"Morning Shouyou!" Koutarou chirped back, plucking his son up by his sides, he helped the boy get into his uniform before carrying him into the bathroom. As they did every morning and night, they peed, washed their hands, brushed their teeth, and washed their face. Koutarou carried his son down the stairs, being mindful of his son's dangling head and sat him in front of a plate of steaming rice and natto. Once the boy had begun eating, he turned around and headed back upstairs once again, this time going into his own bedroom to wake up Kazumi.

She whined.

She groaned.

She slapped and clawed at him.

However, he was nothing if not persistent, and eventually his wife awakened, glaring at him through icy blue eyes. In this moment, she did not live up to her name, but Koutarou just petted her hair instead.

"You're gonna be late again…" He commented at the figure under the blanket.

"Come on, get up…" He tried, only for a hand to slap at him again.

He sighed, and left. His duty was complete, at least.

Shouyou was waiting downstairs, fully awake and smiling. Koutarou smiled back at his son.

"Ready for school?" He asked, handing over the boy's backpack.

Shouyou chirped, "Yup!" Before running over to him. "Are you ready for working?" Was asked in return, as it was every morning.

He laughed, tugging the handle on his briefcase, "Yup!" He answered, doing his best to mimic his son's voice, as he did every morning.

They walked outside together, admired the feeling of warmth the late morning was giving them, and walked in sync outside of the gate that surrounded their yard. Sure enough, as was the case every morning, there was a black car waiting for the two of them.

Koutarou helped his son into the back, making sure he was buckled in and smiling before taking the front seat for himself.

"Good morning." He finally said to the other passenger, who was dressed sharply, as he was every morning.

"Good morning, Koutarou-san." Was replied in a deep voice before the car was set into motion.

"And how was your night, Keiji?" Koutarou asked once they had reached a stop sign. The driver turned to him then, dark blue eyes examining him as they always did. Koutarou did his own examining as well.

"Boring, as I'm sure you could have guessed." Came the smooth reply. Koutarou chuckled, mood picking up in the presence of his friend.

The ride to Shouyou's school was a quiet one, but nobody minded.

All of them exited the vehicle, and he and Keiji guided his son to his classroom, making sure he was content before they took their leave.

Only when they were back in in Keiji's car did he let his grin fall into nothingness. His friend watched it happen, as he often did.

"Something wrong?" Keiji asked, hands ruffling his hair in an attempt to make it less messy, an endearing trait that the man had had since they'd met all those years ago.

He didn't want to get into it, so he didn't. Keiji didn't seem to mind, never seemed to mind.

Finally, they arrived at their destination, which also happened to be the parking lot of their shared workplace, not a coincidence in the slightest, not that either of them would deny it.

They walked in together, greeted their boss together and he dropped Keiji off at his workstation, the receptionist desk, and he sauntered off down further until he reached his office.

Work that day was slower than usual, which, he supposed, should be a good thing, considering he helped rehabilitate injuries. He massaged, prescribed, treated and smiled until it was time to leave.

Keiji wasn't at the receptionist desk when he was finally free from his shift, and he didn't bother looking for the man. He took the train to the closest station to his home and walked the rest of the way until he was finally at his front door.

Shouyou jumped him as soon as the door was cracked open. If he were any less solid, he probably would have toppled over onto his back, but he'd managed to catch the boy midflight and spun him around a few times before initiating his parental protocols.

"Did you do your homework?" Shouyou looked towards the ground, away from him. Koutarou frowned deeply, "Shouyou?" He asked firmly.

"…No." Came the hesitated reply.

Koutarou ran his fingers through his son's hair for a moment, admiring the softness of it for a moment before smacking the boy on the butt, just not enough for it to sting, "Go get started on it, I'll start dinner."

The boy nodded, and quickly ran over to the living room table and began pulling things out of his backpack.

Koutarou glided past his son and into the kitchen, where he was greeted with a cup of coffee, still steaming, as well as a rather familiar looking breakfast plate.

"Koutarou-san." Keiji greeted from the table, making his presence known, though he'd already noticed the man lingering there like a shadow.

"Are you staying for dinner?" He was quick to ask, one of the few events in his current life that was completely random. Keiji was squirrely like that, another trait he'd had since high school.

"…I suppose." Was muttered loud enough for him to hear, though both of their attentions were on the plate that had been sitting on the table since he'd left that morning.

Sighing, he walked back into the living room, giving a long glance at his hardworking son before approaching the answering machine. The device was glowing red, indicating a message. With a press of his finger, the machine beeped ominously.

" _Koutarou-san, this is Natsuko, your boss, in case you forgotten,"_ The recording spat, sounding like a very dangerous animal. A shiver sped up his back at the blatant animosity in the speaker's voice, " _I really hate to say this, Koutarou-san, but this is the fifth time this MONTH you haven't shown up to work without notice. This kind of behavior is unacceptable in this company, and…"_ He deleted the recording before it could say anything else, he already gotten the gist of it. His wife was, not for the first time, fired from her job.

He walked back into the kitchen bristling and with a headache.

"Do you need some help preparing dinner, Koutarou?" The lack of formality in Keiji's tone threw him for a loop and left him blinking stupidly for far longer than necessary.

"Uh…" He replied, now staring intently without blinking, "Sure, Keiji, that'd be great." He threw a smirk at the man he'd come to know as his best friend.

"I wanna help too!" Came a call from the doorway, causing him to turn around to see Shouyou standing there, jogging in place as if he were preparing for an Olympic event.

Koutarou frowned at his son, "Didn't I say to do your homework?"

His son looked up at him, brown eyes sparkling with mischief, "I already finished!" Shouyou proclaimed loudly, stomping one foot as if to prove it true. He raised a skeptical brow.

"May I see it?" He asked innocently enough.

Sure enough, though it took him longer than he would care to admit, Shouyou's homework was complete with each answer being correct.

His son definitely deserved a treat for being such a genius!

"Let's wash our hands then!" He cheered, lifting Shouyou up so he could reach the sink.

The three of them prepared a meal together, washing dishes along the way, including the breakfast plate of his wife's uneaten meal.

They grilled fish, well, he grilled fish while Keiji spouted off useless information about vegetables to Shouyou, which kept the boy entertained while they prepared a meal around him. They let Shouyou pour the soup packets into the boiling water though, a very important step that the boy trusted to nobody else.

Soon enough, fish, soup, and chopped vegetables crowded the table.

"Is mommy gonna eat with us?" Shouyou asked, a small finger pointing towards Kazumi's chair, directly to Koutarou's left.

"Mommy said she isn't hungry." A lie, but even his parents lied to him growing up, just not about his mom being not hungry, it was still the same concept though, he was sure.

Shouyou took the answer well enough, and didn't react when Keiji took Kazumi's seat, the only other chair at the table, and began helping himself.

It would have been an awkward dinner if it weren't for his son, who was questioning Keiji about every aspect of his life, which the man answered easily enough, giving Koutarou a little more insight to his best friend's life, though most of the information he'd already been privy to, like his favorite color and animal.

Shouyou tired himself out quickly enough though, and decided he wanted to be put to bed, something children everywhere were gasping at, Koutarou was sure.

They performed their nightly ritual together, Koutarou inviting Keiji into his _office_ until Shouyou was asleep, to which the man agreed.

Together, they peed, washed their hands, brushed their teeth, washed their faces, Koutarou decided to shave his face and Shouyou watched intently.

He settled his son into bed, tucking him in tightly, and began to read where they had left off yesterday, though they'd barely gotten through a page before his son passed out.

Koutarou kissed his son's forehead on the way out and closed the door.

Keiji was still loitering in his _office_ when he finally made his way into it.

"Drink?" He offered, knowing the other man hadn't touched alcohol in his life. Predictably, Keiji declined.

It wasn't until he had downed a suitably amount of alcohol before he noticed that his friend was reading a book, _the_ book.

He swallowed around nothing, feeling tense, like he needed to run all of a sudden.

"That's…" He trailed off, not sure how to offer an explanation.

"It wasn't in here the last time I was here, so…" Was Keiji's explanation, which didn't offer him any help in his own.

"It doesn't have an author." His friend said, now examining the leather cover and spine instead of the contents.

"Not to mention it's about that boy." Koutarou could feel his heart stop.

"How did you get this?" Keiji pressured, now looking at him with his dark blue stare, with intensity he hadn't seen since they'd both played volleyball in high school.

Koutarou swallowed nothing but air, then decided he needed another drink.

"I always had a feeling, I mean, you named your son after him…" Keiji suggested, as if there was anything to suggest.

Koutarou remained dutifully silent until he had more alcohol in him, then he took the book and the space next to his best friend.

"I just… feel bad, for him, I mean, he had a lot of… _ambition,_ he wanted to be someone, be an _ace…"_ He tried, finding an ounce of courage somehow while still under Keiji's stare.

"There's a part about me in here…" He offered sometime later, interrupting their silent staring contest. "It's not much, just me giving the kid a hug, and reading it makes me feel like I did something, like I _helped_ someone, Keiji…"

His best friend nods, but says nothing, just continues to look, to _stare_ at him.

"And _she_ reminded me of him, of that feeling I got, but… I don't feel that anymore, I don't feel like I'm helping anyone…"

Keiji swallowed loudly, a sign he was about to say something, "Kou…" The man whispered, nothing but husky air in the short distance between them. "You're still an ace, still a captain, you still help people every day, and—!" Keiji stopped talking, but not on his own will.

Koutarou had shoved his lips against his best friend's, effectively shutting him up, effectively resurfacing everything he'd ever felt in his entire life, effectively burning him from the inside out.

 _Thank you, Shouyou…_ He thought, as he finally let himself fall victim to the feelings he'd been repressing since he'd fallen in love with Akaashi Keiji.


	4. Chapter 4

Sawamura Daichi

The alarm clock beside his bed doesn't wake him up, he's instead jolted into alertness by a bolt of lightning that shatters his unconsciousness. Slowly, his chest uncurls itself and he's able to rest his head back onto the pillow under him.

His eyes close, and he slows his breathing, yet his brain refuses to turn off, despite the knowledge that he wouldn't have to get up for several more hours. Not at all if he didn't want to.

The rain outside, crashing loudly onto his roof, as well as the plots of land that surrounded said roof, was doing his job for him. He could rest all day if he really wanted.

But he couldn't, even if he should.

 _Good day for rain…_ His mind supplies, though he's unsure if he thought it or said it into the empty room around him.

He rolls onto one shoulder.

Then the other.

Then sighs. Despite his sufficient rest—more than sufficient, his dad would say, if he were still here, the noise is riddled with exhaustion.

He finds himself reaching for his cell phone, just beyond the, now useless, alarm clock.

The screen, when he flicks it open, blinds him for a moment and he blinks rapidly until his eyes adjust to the sensation.

With no new messages, he decides to compose one of his own.

" **You still coming today?"** Sends it to four people, the only ones that seem to matter these days.

A reply from one is almost instant, and a deep sadness rolls over him, **"Yup."** It's from Suga, who should, like any normal person, be sleeping. But he's not, and Daichi hates why.

He doesn't respond to the message; there's nothing left to say at this point.

He stands, he pisses and shaves and brushes and grooms the receding line of his hair with the lights off and his eyes closed.

He's tired.

The rain outside doesn't help.

 _Good day for rain._ He thinks, again, as he pulls open the fridge and pulls out a canned coffee; black and bitter as his soul.

He wipes cream off of his lip with his tongue, then the residue off on his shirt, and stares out the kitchen window of his family home, wondering why it was raining in the dry season.

Two hours later, another reply comes, from Ennoshita, who's waking up for work. **"I'll be there. Food after?"**

" **Sure."** He responds, even though there would be food where they're going, enough to bloat his stomach. It'd be nice to spend some time together, though.

Not bothering with actual breakfast, he drops the now empty can into the garbage, and sets about getting dressed.

Shorts and a t-shirt, and his last pair of boxers. He'd have to do laundry today.

Two hours pass before his phone chimed from the kitchen window. He stopped staring at the television screen and read the message. **"I'll be there."** He's not sure when Tanaka had gotten so serious, even over text, but he supposes it doesn't matter.

Today was a serious day.

Two hours pass, then another one, and when their meeting time comes, he checks his phone for the last time and finds himself without a fourth reply.

Daichi steps outside of the warmth of his home and into the chilling gale of what should have been a dry summer. His umbrella keeps him dry, aside from the gorge of puddles that are heavily accumulated at his feet, sinking past his shoes and well into his socks.

The other three are waiting outside when he finally makes it there, marking the third year in a row where he wasn't the first one there. Not that he's keeping track.

Nods go around, his gaze lingers on Suga's longer than it should, taking in the bags under his eyes and the dryness of his lips, falling, more appropriately to his attire, to the crumpled version of a collared shirt and slacks. He almost laughs.

Even in tens of thousands worth of designer material, Koushi still looks like a kid raised in Miyagi.

Tanaka looks more _mature_ than the last time they'd seen each other, scruff coating both cheeks and his blond faded more into a light brown.

Ennoshita looks the same as he did in high school, well-groomed and somber. He smiles, still, but it's painfully small.

"Shitty weather, huh?" Tanaka spouts out, running fingers over grizzled chin.

Daichi shrugs in return and Ennoshitta nods quietly.

"Shall we?" Suga beckons after the silence persists for another moment, he flings an arm back, gesturing to the glass door they're all avoiding.

More nodding.

He leads them, though it's been almost a decade since he's been their captain; since he's had the right to do so.

Ukai looks up when the door slams shut behind them. His hair, as ever, is bleached and tied back. His face wrinkles when he smiles at the group of them, "That day of the year, huh?" The remark pulls a laugh from each of them, though, judging from his look, he has a feeling that Ukai hasn't forgotten what day it is.

"Five meat buns." He says, to which Ukai echoes it back to him, tapping out on a register until the price comes up. He announces that to.

Daichi hands over a few bills and some coins. Ukai doesn't count them, instead just jamming the money into the register and slamming it shut.

Five meat buns end up in a paper bag in front of him, and, when he grows to grab it, another item is placed onto the counter. A bouquet of flowers, red and orange.

"From my mother." Ukai explains. "Doctor told her to get a hobby for her knees."

Daichi nods, hands the bag to Tanaka and takes the flower for himself.

"See ya." Ukai says, ending their conversation.

Daichi doesn't know if he replies when he ends up outside, still staring at the flower gripped tightly in his fist.

"Ready?" He asks. Three heads nod somberly, and he leads them down the street, past Ukai's store, and a number of houses before jumping over the stone wall that serves as a perimeter to the forest—a recent addition.

Their pace is slow. It gives him time to gaze around the forest, to appreciate the blood-orange leaves steadily turning isn't a soggy carpet as the rain continuously pelts down through the forest's overgrowth.

The four of them arrive at a small pond, and they each spread out from their single file line to stare into its abyss.

In front of the lake is a wooden cross. He's not sure who made it, nobody he's asked had admitted to doing so. He places the bouquet under it.

A meat bun finds itself on top of the cross, looking almost sacrilegious. One also finds itself into his hand, and he waits, like a child, until they're all passed around before he begins eating.

It fills his stomach to the point where he considers throwing up.

He doesn't, of course. Not in front of Shouyou.

None of them say anything, all their thoughts already ensnared in the forest somewhere after years of confessions.

Daichi prays though, closing his eyes and remembering. Remembering as fondly as he can, even when it hurts. He doesn't remember a lot about Shouyou, and he barely knew the kid before that; he thinks that hurts more. How little of each other that they have.

Beyond the cross, the pond, surprisingly clear and surrounded by natural flowers, begins to overflow.

They take their leave before their shoes get wet.

His are already soaked.

Their group livens up when the step outside of the forest, nearly half an hour later.

Ennoshita offers to pay for their meal, and Daichi doesn't say much as they cram into his small car.

They end up twenty minutes away, the rain tapers to a stop, and Ennoshite parks at a decrepit looking shack that Ennoshita insists is the ramen best in Miyagi. His thighs get splinters from the picnic bench they're stationed at, but the meal is good. And free, so he doesn't complain.

The four of them chat quietly, subtle bragging that is quickly laughed off, implications of love—or In Tanaka's case, the _size of this one woman's… bust._ Together, they make promises of things to be, revolving, almost entirely, about seeing each other before the next storm in front of Shouyou's lake.

They won't, of course, but the atmosphere is cheerful enough that he finds himself drowning in it; he laughs with them as they all pile into Ennoshita's car.

The mood dies on their way back to a less remote portion of Miyagi. Through the filter of the midday sun, he takes in the faces of each of his high-school friends, letting them soak into his memory. When he lands on Suga—on Koushi, just beside him, he falters, like his heart is actually sinking.

It's a weird feeling, and when Ennoshita drops him off in front of his family's empty house, when he sinks into the mats on the floor in front of the TV, he still doesn't have an answer.

He spends the rest of the day ignoring that feeling, and thinking about Shouyou, if he'd even see Suga at all, damn him for thinking this, if it weren't for Shouyou's death.

The rain stops sometime after the night falls, and the empty house feels all too constricting.

Daichi pulls on his shoes and marches down the street, over the stone wall that separates the forest from the small residential area. He trudges through the leaves, now purple under the moon's beams, but no less squishy, and finally pauses in front of Shouyou's gravestone.

He's not buried here, of course, but the boy he'd known all those years ago feels present under the moon.

If he called out right now, he's almost certain Shouyou would answer.

He's too scared to find out.

Daichi prays once more, for real this time. Offering his apologizes while his knees sink into the mud in front of the tilting cross. The meat bun from earlier today is gone without a trace, just under the cross though, another flower is placed. A single white rose, long turned soggy and starting to brown from the mud just below it.

"I'm so sorry."

When the sobbing stops, hours or minutes later, the paranoia starts to set in. The distinct feeling of being watched and the desire to run away from the fallen sanctuary to a more secure one.

His heart pounds in his ears as he dashes through the forest.

If it weren't so loud, he's pretty sure that he'd hear the panting and the squishing of shoes from someone just behind him.

The door slams shut behind him, but he doesn't bother locking it before he's throwing his shoes down and marching into the bathroom.

He retches violently a few times before anything comes up, chunks of ramen and beef splatter into the bowl until only bile comes out.

Daichi flushes the toilet and undresses, taking a shower and brushing his teeth before sinking into his futon. The dripping of the dying rain puts him to sleep.

He wakes up the next morning before the sun has risen by a harsh ringing that he turns off as soon as he gains control of his still asleep arm.

He dresses without underwear, he should really do laundry today, and heads outside and walks away from town, towards the fields.

The soil is still damp from the rain, but starting to crack near the top where the water has begun soaking into the ground.

With a sigh, he decides to water everything anyway. It shouldn't take that long, considering how most of the plants are still damp, but still mostly asleep, he finds himself taking hours to water the entire plot, just for something to do.

The sun is high by the time he decides to call it a day, it's warmth weighing down and making him sweat through his clothes.

He takes another shower once he's inside, but doesn't bother dressing outside of the towel. A canned coffee finds its way into his hand and he stares blankly at the wall across from him until the can is empty and he's bored again.

The house is ringing and he blinks out of whatever daze he's found himself in. He steps away from the kitchen counter, ignoring the painful tingling in his legs and walks into bedroom.

Beside his futon, his phone is ringing noisily, but stops when he approaches.

He doesn't recognize the number, but doesn't bother calling back when they don't leave a message.

Daichi finds himself standing in the bedroom, which seems even louder when it's actually quiet. His gaze, of course, finds itself drifting towards the pile of books in the corner, mostly notebooks and almanacs, except the one on top.

He picks it up and wipes off a layer of dust from its gilded cover, ignoring how out of place the ornate tome looks among the remains of his past studies.

Opening it, he examines what should have been a blank page. **4/7.** He wonders if it's a date or something else; the number of books perhaps? Did Suga get one? Or Tanaka?

He reads through the first few chapters, letting himself become enthralled with Shouyou's beginnings. That moment when he'd first met Nekoma's setter. The second-hand guilt from Suga's admissions make his cheeks heat up, realizing, not for the first time, that he'd taken the other boy for granted for so long.

He stops reading before Shouyou plays his first game as a team, before he gets into his first big fight with Kageyama, before everything in Shouyou's life seems to crumble into ash.

The book cuddles into his chest, sharp leather carrying almost the same heat as a human person as he lies down, returning to unconsciousness once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Nishinoya Yuu

The city is theirs, or at least the part that matters, anyway. It took long enough, he thinks, nearly a decade and at the cost of a several of his own and plenty of theirs. Not to mention one of his fingers.

A knife twirls carefully between said fingers, dancing through each of them, save for the stub of his ring finger, and finally snaps closed. He places the device on the table, close enough to be in arm's reach.

Yuu pulls his legs off the dark wood of his desk and drops them to the floor before standing, he rolls up the map that had been under his boot and shoves it into the desk's drawer.

He wouldn't be needing it anymore.

His most trusted are waiting in the _lounge_ just outside of his office, throwing down cards but standing when he walks into the room. He waves them off with a hand and excuses himself out the door on the other end of the room.

The chill of warehouse hits him like a slap to the face when he steps into it and he wonders how the others around him can bare it as he steps down into the masses below, all of them stationed in circles around tiny barrel fires.

Orange clad individuals freeze to a halt when he steps down from the second floor, some of them greet him, but he's mostly met with silence.

"Good news, boys!" He shouts, the tenor of his voice pitching off the walls. Everyone in the building can hear him, even over the shifting of countless flames, "We've claimed the last business district from those blue-boys."

The news erupts in cheers, and he has to wave a few times to quiet them down, "Which means the city is ours, everyone knows our names! Nobody can stop us!" More shouting, whoops.

"It is important, though, in this moment of victory, to remember where you came from, where you stand, and what you fight for."

"A place in the sun!" Calls back to him from hundreds of voices.

"A place in the sun." He answers.

"Enjoy the feast!" At once, doors on either side of the warehouse are pushed open, and the smell of frying meat quickly pushes out the smell of smoke from the place.

He excuses himself back to his office, waving at his boys before locking himself in the tiny room.

Flicking open the knife, and twiddling with it once again, he pulls open another drawer on his desk and pulls it open, revealing the only thing inside. The book is heavy enough that it nearly strains his wrist as he fingers it open, revealing a highlighted page.

He hopes it's not terribly incriminating, not that anyone could really stop him at this point. Most of Tokyo was under his control. Not that they exactly knew it.

He closes the book, offering a small prayer to his dead kouhai.


	6. Chapter 6

Kozume Kenma: Part One

He'd been staring at the wall when the phone began ringing. Sighing with resignation, he tore his gaze away from the wall and towards the source of interruption. His phone was still on the charger from where he'd plugged it in and hadn't reached for it since. Instead of answering, or even unplugging the device, he leaned over the nightstand and gazed at the illuminated screen.

The dread was instant.

As was the guilt.

And the longing.

So caught up in this sudden explosion of emotion, as that was the only way to describe it after feeling nothing for so long, he couldn't find it in himself to answer the phone. Instead, his unseeing gaze settled on the vibrating device, not even registering the sound anymore, and watched as it danced around, begging to be answered. When he finally came to his senses, reaching his trembling hands down to answer the damn thing, the ringing had ceased; and he was cast back into silence.

Glancing at the phone, now back to its empty state, with only his reflection imprinted on the screen, he sighed once more.

 _If it was important, they'd call twice._ He rationalized with finality before turning back to the wall.

He continued to stare, eyes sharpening to catch every minute detail, anything he could have possibly missed. He'd been going over the thing for years, adding to it with the vigor of a man possessed. Which, he supposed in his free time one afternoon, years ago now, that he was.

He was possessed by Shouyou.

After all these years.

Especially after all these years.

Kenma reached forward, lifted a piece of the wall with careful fingers and stared some more.

 _Hinata Shouyou – 16_

 _Brutally murdered in the woods near his home._

…

He let the paper fall down until it was slack against the wall once more, and reached for another.

This one much more recent.

 _OIKAWA TORU_

 _VOLLEYBALL'S GREATEST_

He hated that man, the one who'd taken Shouyou away from him.

Another, forced his fingers to continue moving.

 _Hinata Shouyou isn't sure what draws him in…_

Their first meeting, page one of an epic cut short, a story unfinished.

The ending was there too, though the book didn't cover anything like his memories did.

He'd caused Shouyou to die.

 _It's not too late, though._ He reminded himself, though it was getting more and more troublesome to actually believe himself. To believe the voice in his head that sounded like _him._

Another, not even a month old.

 _Teen Brutally Murdered_

He almost hadn't caught this one, having to snatch the last copy out of the hands of some idiot. He needed it more. The gleaming metal around his neck made the guy think likewise.

The Modus Operandi was the same, the method of murder. The same as that night. What little he'd seen of it, what he'd never forget but couldn't witness. He hadn't been there for Shouyou, and he wasn't there for these other kids as they were stabbed, castrated, raped, and finally, after bleeding out, marked with two characters.

 _G K_

The killer was a sadist through and through. Though, he knew that already. Had known it for years; even months before the first victim had appeared.

Kenma grit his teeth together, letting his eyes scoot down to the photos of the boy in the newspaper. The symbols, the signature winked at him. _Chase me, chase me!_ They screamed. Kenma chased, and he chased, and picked up every clue he could find, regardless of its legality and his oath to said legality. He was going to take down Oikawa Toru.

Unfortunately, that was becoming more and more difficult the longer he waited. Oikawa was a superstar in Japan, practically an idol to every female past the age of fifteen. Even if he managed to nail Oikawa on the crimes, the dick had not only the entire female population protecting him, but a string of lawyers guarding his every action. Effectively, Oikawa was untouchable.

Even with the book; especially with the book. It was practically bait in and of itself.

He glanced towards the nightstand again, stretched his arm and pulled said novel into his hands. There had been no packaging, no stickiness to indicate any adhesives. Meaning it was hand delivered to his home. There was no publishing company and no author's note. On the back, it gave no indication of what the story was about. A style used by older book publications, much older than himself or the book. Which could mean a few things:

The book had come from the distant past, and had only fallen into his possession after the events within had unfolded.

An impossible scenario.

Or, it had been published at discount with a very old retailer. Much more likely.

Unfortunately, aside from these few things. He knew very little about how books were published.

He was, however, certain of one thing.

Kenma wasn't the only one to receive one of these books.

Another thing he'd almost missed.

The very first page, one that should have been blank, held, perhaps, the biggest clue he had so far.

 **1/7**

It hadn't been made during printing, and had bleed enough to make only one analysis.

It didn't signify a date, of that he was certain.

Whoever had written this book had sent it to six others. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn't, but he wasn't going to chance something that would help him with Oikawa, or someone, maybe six someones, that would help him.

He would find these people.

But first, he needed to find out about the book itself.

Its origins, specifically.

He'd head to the library, then.

After work, which was nothing more than sitting at his desk, glaring at reports in a vain attempt to make them shorter, easier to read, or fill themselves out. Eight hours later he was done, and exited the Tokyo Police Station with his briefcase and what was left of his patience.

Or, more aptly put, just his briefcase.

He wasn't sure where to start, but found himself beckoned to the front desk by a smiling patron. She bowed to him when he approached. He didn't bother returning the gesture, though it didn't seem to faze her.

"Can I help you with something, officer?" She questioned softly, almost to the point where he had to lean in just to hear her.

Kenma rolled his lips, unsure how, exactly, to proceed. Nobody had touched the book outside of him, except for his mother, but that had been years ago.

"Can you find the… origin of a book without an author?" He finally asked.

The librarian paused, turning still as a statue for a long moment, "It might be difficult, depending. Do you remember what it was about or some of the text in it?"

His hand hesitated over the clasp on his briefcase before finally flipping it open. The weight was solid in his hand, the leather well-worn. It was irritating to view that book with someone else's fingers clasped around it.

The librarian propped open the book and leaned it against the computer screen behind the counter and began typing.

"No match found…" She responded after a long moment, filled with clicking and the turning of pages. "That's very odd, it doesn't look old… but there's no publisher, or date, or author… Is this, if you don't mind me asking, about a case, officer?"

He hesitates, before nodding, "Yes."

She nods in return, "I apologize, but the database isn't showing another similar to this…" He nods again.

Clearly, whoever wrote it wouldn't want to be found by simply typing it in.

Instead of leaving, he set his briefcase down at a cubical and began weaving through the aisles of the library, through the arts and into the reference sections.

There were countless books on book printing, calligraphy, inlaying, and the process of writing. This would take forever, even when he knew what he was looking for.

He picked out a few and let them tower over him as he began skimming through them.

Somehow, he doubted that learning about the origins of gold inlays or hardcover books would actually help him solve the case.

Knowing who did it made it all the more frustrating.

He would find _GK._


	7. Chapter 7

Kageyama Tobio

Hinata is an idiot.

Hinata will always be an idiot.

That was the truth of the world. At least to him, that was the truth. Now nobody would ever know if it would remain to be the truth, but Tobio had a feeling- one like an itch where he can't manage to bend his arm far enough to reach it- that, regardless of how the world seemed to revolve around Hinata, it would remain a universal constant. Not dissimilar to how volleyball was the best sport on the planet; or how it couldn't be played by only one person.

It required six.

Tobio was only one person.

Fortunately, someone was on his side of the court when everyone in his life decided to step off of it.

Oikawa.

After Oikawa, more and more people seemed to stampede over themselves in attempt to gain his favor.

That's how he managed to get into Tokyo University. That's how he managed to be avoid warming the bench during his first season. That's how he managed to join the international team.

Tobio was close to his goal. He was still a rookie, but with Oikawa pulling their strings like he was, there was a chance he'd make it to the Olympics.

Both of them would; Iwaizumi too.

Hinata would remain in Miyagi, a few meters under the ground and still, always, an idiot.

Tobio wanted to hate him, but more than that, he wanted to forget. Hinata was nothing. _Nothing._ Yet his senpai spotted something in Hinata that he didn't find in Tobio; he couldn't name that something, but that didn't stop him from trying.

 _"Please."_ A voice croaked from beneath him, somehow still speaking despite everything Tobio had been doing to stop exactly that.

He tightened his grip, could no feel the callouses on his fingers start to vibrate against the squirming, pulsing skin. Heisuke's neck was sweating, but so were his hands.

"T-Tobio..." Heisuke cried out, clawing limply at the grip around his neck. Tobio could barely feel the pain, no more than he could feel the tension in his hands and fingers as he continued to choke the life out of the man under him.

Heisuke was like Hinata, an idiot. Had the same bright hair color- until Hinata had dyed his hair like an idiot. The same round eyes, though Heisuke's were a different color entirely; though they were now filling with red as his blood vessels started swelling and popping. The white of his eyes turning an almost interesting shade of red. He was crying though, like an idiot. He'd seen Hinata cry a dozen times and hated it more and more when anyone else did it.

Tobio released the grip on Heisuke's neck, and the man went limp onto the floor below them, falling over and bending over himself. He stood over the man, studying him; looking for something that Oikawa knew was there.

 _Nothing._ It was always nothing.

Heisuke gasped into consciousness minutes later, and tried to scramble towards the door of their hotel room. Something in him prevented him from climbing to his feet, though, and Tobio had plenty of time to gather the redhead in his arms and carry him back to the center of the luxury suite they were sharing for the weekend.

He couldn't do it here.

Tobio grabbed at Heisuke's hair, threading his fingers through the sweaty, damp locks. Played with the ginger ends until they curled under his fingers.

"Tobio?" Heisuke called, once again distracting him.

His eyes were still bloodshot, but Tobio was more interested in the dark purple ring of bruises that were forming under Heisuke's chin.

"Why are you doing this?"

Tobio didn't answer. He used his tongue, instead, to curl around the damage he'd caused. Heisuke's neck tastes like sweat and musk; just like the others before him. Nothing special, nothing extraordinary, but Tobio continued to taste him. He could feel Heisuke's pulse, weak but still hammering away, under his teeth when he began biting at him. The damage was minor, but it was more about the fear that he could hear in the redhead's voice.

This was his favorite part. More than the charming, the dating and everything after.

For the next few hours, Tobio took what he wanted from Heisuke as the man gasped under him, still crying and begging for release.

He promised not to say anything. They all said the same thing.

Tobio never found out if they wouldn't.

He pulled his boyfriend away from the hotel. Tobio had to all but carry him towards his car as the man was too short for him to put a shoulder under his.

Tobio hated short people. With a few exceptions, of course.

Liberos mostly.

Nobody questioned where he was going in the middle of the night, and the bust streets acted as a more than sufficient cover as he tugged a half-conscious man out of the backseat of his car and into the nearest park.

Heisuke screamed when Tobio pulled out a knife. At first it was a hoarse gasp, but then it exploded around them, sending birds flying in all directions away from them. Kageyama shoved his shoe in the guy's mouth. And when Heisuke tried to push it out with his tongue, he shoved it in deeper.

Tobio did everything that had happened to Hinata that night, right down to the letters carved into his still bleeding chest.

He relived a memory that wasn't his.

Still, he found nothing in Heisuke- or Hinata- that he didn't already know.

Collecting Heisuke's severed parts in a jar, Tobio quickly wiped the man down of all traces of another being, disinfecting his skin until his own started buzzing in irritation.

He left Heisuke's corpse there, still spurting blood into the grass around him. Tobio put the jar under the driver's seat and returned home.

Three days past.

No mentions of volleyball, no mentions of his own name.

He'd done it again; gotten away with recreating something he didn't understand.

Oikawa still didn't contact him, aloof in a way that really pissed him off. The man all but guided his hand, but refused to speak to him.

When a week passed, he finally lashed out, toppling his bedroom over until all the furniture was upside down.

The unmarked book slid under the turned over desk and Tobio waited a long time before reaching under it and picking it up.

Someone had written about Hinata's life. Every thought he'd had since meeting that other setter, every game he'd played, every stupid idiot that idiot made friends with. It also spoke of Oikawa, gave glimpses of the man that Tobio had never seen, and of himself.

Whoever wrote it was an idiot.

 **5/7** The inside cover read, like it always did.

Tobio threw the book across the room, venting out the last of his frustrations.


	8. Oikawa Toru

Oikawa Toru

Toru adjusts his tie one last time, aligning the amber colored material until it falls perfectly between the margins of his jacket. The action takes a moment, no more than a few seconds, but the majority of his concentration. What's left of it is pinned on the guy waving him forward like someone who's sole purpose in life is to board emergency rafts. The plastic headset dangling from his over-sized head does nothing to fight the annoyed and panicked expression that's harboring his entire face, nor does it distract him from noticing the massive pit stains that are starting to converge into a single continent on the guy's dark button-up shirt. The entire interaction, including adjusting his tie, takes less than ten seconds, and by the look of it, if he takes any longer getting on stage the guy is going to throw a fit.

He's tempted to tie his shoes.

"Oikawa-san!" The guy says, sweat dribbles over his lip, possibly the most disgusting thing he's ever seen.

Toru smiles as charmingly as he can, "Ah! My apologies." He whispers loudly, a secret between the two of them.

The stage handler falters, then smiles back with a disgusting expression.

Toru wonders, however briefly, while he's escorted past the nearly blinding lights and onto the stage, how people could be so surreal; truly incomprehensible creatures, really. Nothing about them made a lick of sense, yet he was able to read them as easily as he might read a book from grade school. The bold print of expression told him everything he wanted to know, and a lot more that he didn't.

A roar of clapping interrupts his thoughts from the stage-hand. That comes as more of a surprise than it should be, he thinks after he startles from its intensity. Toru re-calibrates his shock and offers another, sweeter smile into a crowd he can't see, their faces are under a cowl of shadow while he's cast into the light by several spotlights that follow his trek towards the center of the stage.

It's exactly as it should be.

Soaking up the praise, he lingers for a moment before sitting down across from the over-dressed host and tries not to stare at the make-up that's currently chipping off of his face like cheap paint.

"Good morning, Oikawa-san!" He cheers with a bright white smile. Toru can't, for the life of him, remember his name.

"Good morning!" He chirps back, trying to match his energy. His eyebrow twitches despite himself, but he hides with a small bow as he tacks on, "Thank you so much for having me."

"Of course! Of course! Oikawa-san, you're practically a celebrity now, and so young too! Tell me, do you feel nervous at all being the youngest starter for Japan's national team?" The man chuckles, thrusting a hand through his sweaty, styled-back hair.

 _Practically..._ Toru echoes sourly, but not bothering to look offended in the slightest, though smiling is more of an effort than it had been ten seconds ago.

"I don't feel pressure at all." He answers honestly; he's not nervous at all in that regard, "It was only a matter of time before someone noticed me, I'm just happy it happened so soon!" He laughs too, soaking in the audience's awed reaction.

"You're so confident, Oikawa-san!" Another laugh. It grates on his ears, if he's being totally honest. "Since we have you here today, would you mind sharing something- just between us, of course!" The host winks, one dark, wrinkled eye squishing in on itself and dragging half of his face with it.

"W-what sort of something?" He asks, faking embarrassment and surprise.

"Hm..." The guy hums into the microphone taped on the collar of his shirt. His voice echoes across the entire audience and Toru is genuinely surprised that it didn't cause an uprising of angered fans demanding a refund for having to sit through this torture.

"How about something personal!" He says with a snap, as if he'd just come up with the idea. He leans towards him and Toru is tempted to lean away; tempted, but not allowed. "How about it, Oikawa-san?"

When the man smiles, Toru suddenly recalls the guy's name. Takashi. Plain; just like him. He's surprised he'd let it slip his mind.

"U-uhm." He stutters perfectly. Shy really isn't his thing, but being too straight-forward never did him any favors out of high school. "What do you w-want to know, Takashi-san?"

"Do you have someone- a girlfriend, perhaps, Oikawa-san?" Another fake whisper that echoes across the stage he's trapped in.

The audience screams at the question, a pitch so high he winces. Toru does his best to hide in an embarrassed cough, but he's not totally confident that the camera hadn't seen whatever flashed across his face between one second and the next.

"Ah, no" He lies. _Yes!_ Technically, Shouyou wasn't a girl, but he might as well be, as far as Toru is concerned.

"That's disappointing." Takashi sighs exaggeratedly, "But! You're still young. I'm sure there's a couple girls in the audience waiting to jump into your arms right now."

As the words echo across the studio, causing an uproar of high-pitched screaming, they hit him like a truck, followed by a train, both of which explode on impact. Toru's smile fades.

 _S_ _tupid, stupid fucking brat..._

"Maybe one day." He answers more cryptically than intended; none of them had a chance with him because none of them could replace what he had lost.

"That aside, let's talk about your debut to professional scene. Oikawa-san, what would you say is the most important thing for someone that looks up to you and your teammates to learn on their way to the top." Takashi questions, somehow managing to shift through a dozen exaggerated facial expressions before the question finally slips out.

Toru taps his chin in thought before replying, "My fans and teammates are probably tired of hearing me say this, but my biggest piece of advice is: if you're going to hit it, hit it hard." A couple of screams accompany his words, "If you want something, you should chase after it with everything that you have or you'll never-"

Takashi looks concerned for all of three seconds. "Never?" He prompts.

Shaking his head, Toru continues with a small, embarrassed laugh, "Never reach your goal. Never bust through the walls keeping you locked in. I'm sure you know what that feels like, don't you, Takashi-san?"

Flakes of make-up flutter to the ground between them like winter leaves as Takashi responds to his jab. Toru would be lying if he said he wasn't just a tad satisfied by the way that host gapes like a fish at his statement. That satisfaction doesn't drown out any of the disgust he has for the man; or people like him for that matter. There were worms writhing underneath his toes looking for their next meal, their brains infinitesimally small with wasted potential atrophying off of them with a stench of hair oil and cheap cologne. Compared to him, they were less than nothing, flesh that had someone amalgamated in front of him and demanded his time, that tried to tug on his strings that he didn't have. They were the puppets after all. None of them mattered; not anymore, at least.

"N-next question, then!" Takashi says excitedly, tugging out a stack of cards from the pocket of his ill-fitting jacket, "This question comes from a member of the audience. Oikawa-sama, what would you say is your favorite childhood memory?"

"My favorite childhood memory?" Toru echoes, "Probably when I first joined my volleyball team in middle school, or when I met my best friend, Iwa-chan, or maybe when my nephew was born..."

The audience cooed, as if on cue.

"Are you referring to Iwaizumi Hajime-san from the university you were scouted from?"

"The very same."

It felt uncomfortable to conceal the truth, though, but knew it would be stupid to otherwise. Technically, those were some of the most memorable instances of his childhood, but he'd hardly consider them his favorites, let alone his most sacred. If he was being honest- despite everything- meeting Hinata Shouyou would be his favorite memory from his childhood, though that was decidedly more of an adult memory than a childhood one. It still held a lot of value to him in spite of everything.

He'd been surprised, of course, when another volleyball team sprung up from the dirt like a spring flower. Not that he hadn't heard of Karasuno before, they were fairly infamous around Miyagi, after all, he was just surprised, mildly so, that they'd dragged enough players in to form a team. There were, much like a new bud, and to nobody's surprise, surprisingly fragile. Even the rock that the crows had formed around, their captain at the time, was weathered down from the waterfalls of life. They would not, and could not, serve as a challenge to everything that Toru had worked for; it was impossible.

Until it wasn't.

Hinata Shouyou, along with his estranged underclassman, Tobio-chan, managed to surprise him. The windows that people were made out of, through which he could see through with devastating, and sometimes cruel, clarity had shocked him. Shouyou might have been a window, but he was a glass cage with a murder lurking inside, slapping against his transparent outsides. He was, unfortunately, fascinating. Captivating, and nothing short of potential greatness.

Toru wanted him like he'd never wanted anything before. It Shouyou had asked him to give up his passion, his life, he might have done it. He just wasn't sure how to broach such a subject with someone who may as well been the sun above his head while Toru was stomping on worms in the garden. His first mistake was approaching like Shouyou was his enemy, and the second was everything that had come out of his mouth afterwards. The sharp, underhanded comments frazzled whatever was locked inside of Shouyou, Toru could see that more clearly than he could see the fear that built up on the man's face. He had performed a social taboo with the ease at which Shouyou smiled, that, if nothing else, would make them compatible; perfect together, really. He just knew it, deep in his bones like aching muscles. He took the first step, then the next, and the next. He wanted to be everything to Hinata, and for Hinata to be everything for him. He wouldn't settle for anything less. With inspiration and dedication, everything should be possible, including love, even for him.

Shouyou might have felt the same way, at least in the beginning. He knows that some part of his heart was dedicated to him, something holding him back from leaping into Kozume's arms like a wounded puppy. What he didn't know was if they were chains of fear or something more genuine. It could be, for all he knew, a strange combination of both, that Shouyou was scared of his intensity, of the way he couldn't help but swoon when the shorter was on his mind.

He hoped that Shouyou felt the same; nothing would bring him more joy than to have harvested that from him.

"Another audience member question," Takashi continues, flipping through the cards in his hands, "Oikawa-sama, who's your biggest inspiration?"

"My teammates, of course!" He assures with a laugh.

 _Shouyou._

It's true that the ginger-haired boy from his youth didn't really influence him to travel the path that he'd carved for himself, but to deny that Hinata didn't help form an intrinsic part of him would also be denying the truth. Shouyou, if anything, had looked up to him as a rival, as someone to defeat; a wall that he needed to break through to advance towards his goal. Toru, who prided himself on his resilience, found that his inability to break down in those instances with Hinata were something that weighed on him like nothing else. If he hadn't tightened his grip on control of the situation, he and Hinata would be together right now. Hinata was like a snowball in that aspect, he could only be molded together so tightly before he shattered into icy puddles that left his hands stained in blood. Then again, Shouyou's jump had proved him wrong to some extent. He had been terrified of Nekoma's captain after their altercations; and rightly so, in Toru's opinion. With all of that, Shouyou didn't have a reason to stand in the way of his revenge.

Yet he did.

Shouyou died while Toru was defending him. It was a cruel irony, one that nobody, not even Toru, could laugh at. Hinata protected someone who had brought him harm, merely because he was a friend of a friend. He really was an idiot.

"Anyone else?" Takashi bleats, as if displeased with his superficial answer.

"My coaches, of course. And my mother." Oikawa provides kindly.

"Of course!" Takashi concedes, flicking through his questions once more, "Oikawa-sama, what do you do when you aren't practicing volleyball? Ah, I've been curious about this too, Oikawa-san. The public rarely sees you outside of the gym. You're not hiding a secret girlfriend, are you, Oikawa-san?"

Takashi's smile makes him physically ill to witness, but Toru feels like he's been punched in the gut when that pearly white gleam is aimed directly at him.

 _Vulture..._ He thinks, annoyed, but with a smile of his own.

"Ah well... Like I said before, I don't have a girlfriend at the moment. As for what I do outside of practice... I suppose I do a lot of what everyone else does, I suppose. I go see movies, pray at shrines, and visit my adorable nephew on long weekends."

It was mostly the truth, not that lying bore a particular weight on his conscious, but weaving a cohesive story was better than leaving it all up to speculation; he might need the evidence one day.

Outside of practice, he moped around his apartment, half miserable and half angry. The fatigue of constant exercise barely burned a hole in the bottom of the bag of his emotions anymore; there was no escape from Shouyou's influence. He refused to feel guilty, though. It was something he would not allow. His mistake was not something that would prevent him from living without his other half, even if he hated every second of it.

In all honesty, he can't remember the last time he'd watched a movie all the way through, anyway. He'd have to fix that.

Seeing his Takeru on long weekends wasn't a complete lie, either. It just wasn't the main reason he took the train all the way back to Miyagi. As much as it would spurn him in the afterlife, he went to see Shouyou in the forest beyond the stone wall. Past the dead leaves, after spending less than an hour with his nephew, he'd stumble through the place of his biggest error and wallow in it. In that place, he could still feel Shouyou around him. In the perfectly still lake, he saw shadows of the man beyond his grasp, the murder hidden behind a clear cage. In the small marker that stood short and strong, just like Hinata had, in front of that very lake, he'd sit for hours and talk to his missing love, leaving behind flowers that reminded Toru of Hinata's hair, or his attitude, or anything about him. Sometimes he left behind the meat buns that Shouyou had loved so much, sometimes he just left behind their shared memories. It felt more real to be there in person than to read about it the mystery book he'd received, even if it was more incriminating. He needed to see Shouyou, not just read about him.

"I think that's all the time for questions we have for today..." Takashi admits with a pout.

"Aww..." Toru sympathizes as best as he can.

"Thank you so much for being on with us, Oikawa-san. All of us look forward to what you'll achieve next!"

"Thank you very much." Toru responds easily, taking to his feet. He adjusts the orange-colored tie hanging down the front of his shirt once again, and walks off of the stage.


	9. Chapter 9

The Funeral of Hinata Shouyou

Shouyou's funeral was held in Miyagi, only a few kilometers away from his childhood home, the same one that he'd been exiled from. That was a weird thing to think about. Kenma doubted that Shouyou would have returned, given the opportunity to never do so again, but no that option was stripped from him, along with everything else. Even the location of his grave was left decided by the adults that Shouyou had only just started to trust again. Kenma liked to think, if Shouyou was looking down on himself from heaven, that his friend would be pissed to see that the hair he'd been so happy to dye was stripped away from him as well. The messy curls, once black, were combed neatly to one side and painfully orange. Not that Kenma didn't like the orange, but Shouyou had certainly opened up as a person after the change and he was rather sad to see it go. That, too, was a stupid thought, but he couldn't help but wonder what Shouyou would say about himself if he could see.

"...Probably something weird." Kenma accidentally murmurs to himself, quietly enough that nobody but his mother hears him. Her hand rubs slowly over his shoulder in what he assumes is to be consoling. The action only makes him feel further and further away from what he'd thought his life was becoming.

The funeral itself was held on the hillside of the town's church, just behind the building that Shouyou's wake had taken place. A large, expansive set of trees barricade them inside the area, keeping stray eyes from wandering into the event and Kenma finds himself glancing in the direction of the forest instead of at his- at Shouyou. Similarly to the wake, very few people were seated with Kenma and his parents at the actual funeral. When he glanced over his shoulder instead of towards the trees, he spotted almost all of the Karasuno team sitting together behind him wearing dark collared shirts and blackened ties. Their captain offered him a small, teary-eyed smile and, though Shouyou had texted him multiple times about this particular man, Kenma couldn't recall his name. Or perhaps he merely didn't want to.

Kenma nods in return regardless, then glances skywards when a particular smell hits his nose. When dry, golden eyes are cast upwards Kenma spots a blanket of charcoal clouds that are low-hanging and swollen and feels his eyes become even harder to keep open. He'd been all but absent that night in the forest, but he remembers the rain of the countryside each time he closes his eyes, can feel it soaking into his shoes and socks as he walks through the puddles by Miyagi station. Settling back into his seat and facing forward, Kenma releases a huge gust of air from his mouth and tries to push that away for now. His mother had told him that funerals were times to put things to rest, not just a body. His grudge and jealousy, or whatever it was, for Oikawa was to be put to bed in this place, his love for Shouyou was supposed to sink in the ground as his casket did, but what would that leave him with if nothing at all. As stupid as it sounds, Shouyou had, ever so quickly, became his everything. Almost overnight, he'd found someone who needed him and Kenma had reciprocated so ardently that he was positive that without Shouyou, without his feelings and memories, he'd be just a shell of a person. Which was such a stupid, illogical process of thought, yet he couldn't seem to pull himself away from it; Kenma couldn't simply pull up an earlier save file and come back with a new perspective.

And if he could...

He would not be standing with the other attendees of Shouyou's funeral and lining up to retrieve flowers and sticks of incense, tokens to ensure Shouyou remained at peace. Despite his spot in the front row -exactly where Shouyou's parents should be- Kenma was one of the last in the line. In that place, he couldn't help the small tug of satisfaction that pierced through him, seeing so many people lined up to commemorate his friend, boyfriend, whatever Shouyou was to him. From his viewpoint, Kenma also noticed that he wasn't the only one with an unorthodox offering, but only when he was standing in front of Shouyou himself could he see the arrangement with his own eyes. Along dozens of delicate flowers and still burning incense, Shouyou's casket also held a number of jerseys. One of them, of course, was Karasuno's number ten jersey, still as black as it had been the last time he'd seen it. One was also from his school as well. It had, until just moments before, belonged to Kuroo. Kenma wonders if it, the jersey, was a way to atone for whatever guilt had built up as a result of Kuroo's change in _his_ plan or if it was something else. Below that was one he'd only vaguely recognized from the training camp, though he knew who that belonged to as well; Hinata's strangely-haired friend from the training camp they'd all went to. To the side, and away from the casket, was a volleyball that the priest had been adamant about burying with Shouyou, claiming that enough was enough.

Finally, Kenma allowed himself to take in Shouyou himself. Part of him hoped that if he refused to put down his flower and incense that Shouyou would bolt upwards and gasp for breath, then they'd all laugh and celebrate or something equally as stupid. He couldn't bring himself to do that to his friend though and carefully placed down his two offerings then, after another moment, untied his school jacket from his waist; Shouyou's aunt had returned it once everything was out in the open. He now returned it back to its rightful owner, carefully, he folds it as neatly as his numb hands could manage and presses against Shouyou's chest.

Shouyou, as was custom in the district, was to be buried in his finest clothes, which, according to his mother's secondhand account, had been his school uniform. She refused to honor him that way, which had surprised Kenma at first, even if he agreed with her completely; together they picked out a nice suit that would have made Shouyou unfairly handsome. Regardless of the price tag- he'd never seen it- his mother was set on it being Shouyou's final outfit. Even now, with Shouyou still and pale, the wounds on his face long bleed out, Kenma found him endearingly beautiful, even with his odd hair color and style. The pale skin of his face and hands seemed to glow, even under the overcast skies, and Kenma presses his lips to both places, regardless of the squawk from the nearby priest. His lips hover Shouyou's forehead, just over his round nose and near one of the many, many scars Kenma knew he'd had, though it was only the third time he'd seen them as closely as he was now. He couldn't help but wonder if any amount of tokens would matter when someone died like Shouyou had, to have everything mutilated, to die in as much pain as that, and so, so far away from where Kenma could reach him. There were folktales of spirits who'd done far more with far less suffering than Shouyou had went through that night. And Kenma, very privately, prayed that Shouyou would come back as one of those spirits just to right his wrongs, even if meant that Kenma never got to see him as he did it.

The casket was put into the ground shortly after Kenma stepped away and almost immediately was he surrounded by people he barely knew. Karasuno's captain was leading them, of course, though Hinata's friend had joined the cluster just as quickly as any of the crows did, his own black-haired friend was missing from the venue and Kenma was pretty sure that he hadn't shown up at all.

"Kozume-kun." Shouyou's captain says, stepping even closer. Kenma was tempted to take a step back, but couldn't manage to work his feet at all. "We've- I've been meaning to talk to you. Shouyou was close to you."

He's not sure how the two sentences connect with one another, but he nods anyway. When Kenma thinks about it though, he wonders if he should have predicted the words coming out of the man's mouth before they did and covered his ears or ran away.

"The cops... and our coach, haven't really told us anything about the situation and I was wondering, as Shouyou's friend, not his captain, if you knew anything."

Kenma is floored.

 _They don't know. They don't know._ Seems to echo in his mind almost a thousand times in it takes him to work his mouth open.

"I do." Kuroo manages to catch his eye over one of the crow's shoulder. The scar scraping down his cheek crinkles with a sadness that, again, leaves him half-desperate to run away.

"Tell us, please." He sounds choked up, and bows quickly, but Kenma doesn't miss the red eyes the man in front of him has, or the quiver of the lips from the dark-haired man next to him.

"You can't tell anyone." Kenma forewarns. His statement gets curious looks, even from his own captain, but they all nod just as quickly as if they see how serious he is.

"Are you familiar with Oikawa Tooru?" He continues after confirming their secrecy. The name comes out as practically a hiss, cursing the man he knows isn't around. There are more nods and even more confused looks. "He and Shouyou were... together; dating."

A few gasps, it's only then that Kenma notices that one of the crows is missing, and not just Shouyou. His partner, the genius setter, was also not among them. Kenma had a hard time denying that he didn't find it strange, the two seemed close, despite the numerous insults Shouyou had slung at the other.

"Hinata's gay?" One of them whispers. Kenma's tempted to snap at whoever had said it, but can't find the words.

"I thought you two..." Shouyou's captain starts but he raises and the man's jaw clicks shut, a power Kenma wishes he'd had all the time.

"Oikawa had been bothering him for a long time and Shouyou came to me to help him but..." Kenma feels his throat starting to clench closed, but the sensation comes from anger more than sadness. Regardless of either of those feelings, he feels like he might start crying again. "I wasn't... I couldn't..."

Kenma isn't sure what to say.

"Oikawa-san... killed him, is what you're saying?" Kenma nods mutely in response.

The crows start talking among themselves. Hinata's friend looked constipated and Kuroo looked like he might sink into the floor. Kenma would be lying if he didn't wish he could do the same.

"What about the police?" Karasuno's other setter says. His name is more familiar, but still fuzzy and Kenma can't pull the letters together.

"They didn't find any evidence of Oikawa-san on his skin or inside of him." Kenma echoes, word for word.

There's more murmuring among Hinata's teammates that Kenma can't bring himself to listen to. He wants to go home. He wants to die. He wants to chase around until he was Oikawa in arm's reach and strangle him to death. More importantly, he just wants to be left alone.

Turning on his heel of some overpriced and uncomfortable shoes, Kenma tries to fulfill his wish when there's a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you." Is muttered directly into his ear, "You meant a lot to him and... if you ever want to talk, we know what you're going through. Not all of it, sure, but... Thank you."

Kenma keeps walking. The rain, as if on queue, starts cascading heavily, all at once, over the funeral and Kenma finds it easy to hide the tears in the rain, but it does nothing to stop the loud, childish sobbing that tears through him once he turns his back on the crows.


	10. The End

The End

The bell tolls loudly through the house. The glass panels that front the bookcases circling the room all vibrate in their mahogany cases as the chimes work their way into the master bedroom. The pair of twin doors leading to the hallway and the source of the noise open abruptly, sending a gust of winter wind through the chamber; the pink, sheer curtains covering the set of doors on the other end of the room shudder lightly against the manufactured breeze but settle into place within moments as if they'd never been disturbed. The floorboards are too new to creak under the shifting pressure of footsteps, but the shiny, waxy finish of the dark wood does nothing to stop the click of the sharp, angular heels that approach the massive, canopied bed towards the back of the room.

"Pardon me, mistress." An even voice calls out from beyond the thin, translucent ivory sheets that cover the bed. The voice is all but a whisper, no louder than the wind stirring outside in a winter storm, and no less pleasant than the smell of baking food from several rooms away. The European husk is warm and heavy in the timbre of the quiet of their voice.

"I heard." The bed, or rather, the ungraceful lump behind the curtains says with a long winded sigh.

Lady Kiyoko emerges from the mess of silk sheets and the ivory canopy looking no less graceful than when she'd gone to sleep. Her long, black hair is still straight and pushed behind her shoulders with regal grace. And once her face is washed and her skin perfumed, her glasses sit on her nose with that same grace, giving her the edge of an intellectual and a stare that makes people avert their eyes when she glances in her direction.

Inka, who'd been overseeing the entire process, was evidence of just that. Her gaze quickly dropped to the floor beneath her feet as her mistress glanced in her direction before slipping out of the soft, white fabric of her nightgown and into something more proper. Once that was complete, Lady Kiyoko turned back to her with a frown that produced no lines in her cheeks and didn't seem very genuine.

"Where did you put them?" She asks politely, closing the distance between them.

"In the sitting room, unless you'd rather-" Her mistress cuts her off with a mere lift of her hand, which is ivory and soft, even in the harsh winter light glowing through the curtains on the room's far end.

"That's fine, and you're sure it's him?" Inka almost feels offended, but nods without betraying that thought.

She bobs her head silently instead and then finds herself following her mistress out of the master bedroom and through the hallway. The smell of cooking breakfast wafts through the corridors effortlessly and, despite having worked here for so long, and being subjected to such tantalizing aromas daily, Inka finds her stomach rumbling in hunger. She's half-tempted to run through across the carpeted hallways and dive into the kitchen just for a first taste, but keeps herself in check with a deep breath and a sigh. Fortunately, the opportunity for her to run off soon makes itself quite clear after she slides the door to the sitting room open and escorts her mistress in. She's waved off without a backwards glance and Inka makes a beeline towards the kitchens.

Kiyoko stands a the precipice of her sitting room. Her emotions threaten to overwhelm her; her legs, made strong from years and years of track, threaten to jiggle under her and refuse to reorient themselves until only after she's navigated to the far side of the room, dragging her feet along like two blocks of stone. Next, her heart hammers against her chest in a loud, pulsing rhythm that leaves her a little dizzy.

"You're here." She gasps into the air between her and her guest. Her words ghost along their eyesight for a long moment. "I was worried you'd never come."

Her guest inclines his head in silent acknowledgement. "You didn't make it easy." Kozume says, pulling a hefty, familiar tome out onto the desk between them. The papers under it shiver like caged birds, their crisp, white wings flutter in every direction as they attempt an escape.

Kiyoko thinks he sounds bitter, sad even. Like all the years between them were still open and hurting. In a way, she supposes, they still are. Kozume's eyes have the same bags under them that they did when he was ten years younger. His hair, though much shorter than it had been, looked limp and un-cared for, hanging in limp spikes against his forehead. For someone approaching their thirties, Kozume looks ten, maybe even twenty, years older, even with the blush from the winter storm giving life to his nose and cheeks. Kiyoko would be lying if she didn't sympathize, even if she didn't show it; she felt the same way inside, still hurting and still having sleepless nights. Sometimes, it felt like she'd never left Japan at all.

"How did you do it then?" Kiyoko questions next, "Find me, I mean."

Kozume's fingers, still long and thin, just like how Shouyou had described them and how she'd written them, ghost around the edge of the book between them. The tips of his fingers slide over the gold leafing, the imprints look dull and worn, even under the bright ceiling lights. His eyes, like golden fire, catch her attention as if they'd been calling out to him.

"The pressing style." Kozume's voice is hoarse and thin when he speaks, reflecting emotions like they hadn't when he was younger. "It's European; French. When I made the discovery, it took me months to make that connection."

Kiyoko, despite herself, smiles; just a small quirk of her lips that she can't quite quell.

"That conversation with Sh- with him, on the bus." His narrow fingers slide to one of the many bookmarks sticking from the pages and flicks it open. The page is highlighted in multiple colors, her words are in a light blue, the ones that, apparently, had caught her red-handed.

"Why are you here, Kozume-kun?" Kiyoko has to ask.

"I-" He half-answers. His eyebrows narrow, like he hadn't expected the question. "He deserves to be punished; to die."

Privately, Kiyoko agreed. If there was a march against Oikawa, she'd be one of the first to join. But there wasn't. Oikawa was huge. Practically an idol of the athletic world. Books, movies, magazines, interviews. Even with the number of countries separating them, his name still catches her ears in the Parisian streets, though the name is all but forbidden in her home.

"I agree." She finally says, first in French, then it Japanese when Kozume looks confused. "If I thought that I could get to him, I would have done so years ago, before I left. Before... _this._ " She can't bring herself to touch the truth in front of her. It still hurts, still bleeds.

Kozume nods. "He's everywhere, but there's something else." The way he says it draws her attention in a way it shouldn't. The slender fingers holding the pages of her past are pulled away and towards a satchel hanging from his chest, then a manila folder is pushed on top of her desk, covering the book. She'd be lying if it didn't fill her with relief.

The folder was labeled in black ink. Classified in bright, crimson. She finds herself smiling again, even as dread starts welling up from her stomach.

"He's? Again?" Kiyoko asks and even she struggles to hear what she's saying. Her throat starts closing in.

Kozume shakes his head, but it doesn't calm her in the slightest. "A copycat." He merely says before opening the document.

The urge to vomit hits so suddenly that she almost can't control it, but she swallows it down, then calls for a glass of water, making sure the folder is firmly shut as Inka slides into the room. Kozume asks for something as well, though she forgets it as soon as Inka leaves for the second time.

"He didn't do these?" She asks, whispering loudly. Kozume had to be confused or lying, or something.

"His alibi is... infallible. I was even in the same room as him when one of the bodies was discovered." Kozume's words make the water sit like rocks in her stomach.

"A partner then?" She suggests, terrified when she hates to be.

"He doesn't have contact with anyone suspicious. His teammates, manager, publicist. All of them are... nothing about them is suspicious." Kozume says with a frown.

Kiyoko forces herself to look at the documents, knowing she'd probably never have an opportunity like the one she's just been given. Even still, she finds it hard to keep her eyes glued to the pictures and documents. The victims, all of them, look like they could be related, some even twins, of the boy from her youth. Light red hair that looks almost orange, small stature, and a face, even pale with death, she can't help but admit is cute and attention-drawing. The autopsy reports, as she skims through them, read familiar to the ways that her friend had been mutilated; practically identical crimes between the large number.

"Nobody has seen Oikawa with anyone besides those on stage with him." Kozume tacks on, further shattering her.

"He's really not involved?" Even if it was true, Oikawa had been the one to start all of this, who deserved punishment, not just for Shouyou, but for these ones boys too.

Kozume doesn't answer, just watches from across her desk as she forces herself to stomach the evidence of her passiveness.

When she finally gets to the bottom of the reports, a gasp is rend from her as if by god himself and Kiyoko feels her lungs contract into nothing almost immediately.

"This is..." She can't even get the words out.

"Kageyama Tobio." Kozume says in her place. His voice is calm, but Kiyoko can see, clear as day, the fire burning in his golden eyes. She feels, just for a second, like she's been lost and found at the same time and wonders if this is how he must have felt when they met all those years ago.

It was true, though. Kageyama-kun was standing with one of the previous entries in the file. His face was one she hadn't seen in years, but it still easily recognizable. Dark hair and blue eyes towering over one of the redheads in the pictures, even as their lips colliding and a look of lust somehow filters through the image, she can't help but shudder at the odd look on her old teammate's face.

"Y-you are saying." Kiyoko stutters out, feeling like the child she'd never been.

"Kageyama is the copycat." His voice doesn't carry a theory, but a conviction, like he knows it to be true.

"What do you plan on doing?" She asks, trying to draw up whatever composure she can.

"Nothing." It shatters her heart. "He's joining Oikawa's team and is almost as popular as he is; he's untouchable."

Despite what Kozume says, she wants to believe that it isn't true.

"Did he..." She swallows, then starts again. "Did Oikawa ever really... Did he love him?"

Hurt gashes Kozume's face as if she's struck him herself, but he bobs his head, nodding.

"I broke into his home." He admits, as easily as one discussing the weather. "He loved him, still does. A shrine. There's poems and songs. Pictures."

Kiyoko, despite her hatred, feels a tear slick down her cheek.

"Then why... Why did he..." She can't force herself to ask.

"Me." Kozume says.

Kiyoko wants to comfort him, to staunch the tremors in Kozume's shoulders, to wipe at his damp eyes, but she can't.

"Oikawa was jealous." Kozume says, "It was my fault Shouyou was killed. I had a plan to stop it, you know that, but I failed; I failed him when he needed me."

Kiyoko rushes around the desk and pulls the stranger into her arms, holding and rocking him like a child.

"It's not your fault." She says against his scalp. "None of this is your fault."

"It is." He gasps, "I wasn't... strong enough to stop him, or smart enough to see through Kuro, I shouldn't have let me talk me out of it. None of this would have happened."

"You need to forgive yourself, Kenma." She soothes, "Shouyou would cry, seeing you like this."

Kozume nods against her, but doesn't stop shaking, doesn't stop crying.

"I need to stop this." He says firmly, after a long moment of being vulnerable, probably the longest he's ever had in ten years.

"You need to be careful." Kiyoko advises.

"I'm tired of being careful."

"I know." She felt the same way, even now. She'd run away from home, escaped everything she knew to hide from the past. The book, Shouyou's book, was supposed to be a warning, to draw attention to reality. Yet, now, everything she'd been working for, everything that she'd been running from, was broken now. Her old life had caught up to her in a way she hadn't been expected.

Oikawa's truth was unexpected, but Kageyama's was much more so.

She had to do something.

Kozume ended up staying the night, tucked away in one of the spare bedrooms while she packed some of her things. Inka was staring at her from the bedroom door, curious. Kiyoko rarely left the house for more than a single night.

"I'll be gone for... some time." Kiyoko confesses, zipping one of the cases closed.

The flight to Japan is a long one, but also one she'd never thought she'd take.

Kozume's first order of business was to visit his old friend, Kiyoko wanted to wait outside, but the detective managed to talk her into entering Kuuro's apartment. The man looked very much the same as the last time they'd met, messy hair, dark eyes that had terrified Shouyou. The newest addition was the decade old scar that curled down his face.

With Kozume at her side, Kiyoko wrote down every word the man said to them while he hid behind his desk. His shame, his guilt, how much it had terrified him when Oikawa had pulled the knife out. After that last admission, his face turned to Kozume and Kiyoko watched the tears start rolling down his face. The things he'd admitted were unforgivable. He was no better a man than Oikawa himself and she'd said as much. Kuuro took it in stride, nodding quietly before continuing.

Kozume's childhood home was next and, while she'd never actually been there before, she recalled most of it from Shouyou's memory. The bar stools, the sitting room, Kenma's bedroom. They all looked how Shouyou had painted them for her. Kozume's parents were more happy to see their son than they were displeased to see her. When she asked about Shouyou, their eyes began to water. It was Kenma's mother who'd shared the most devastating news.

"He was going to die anyway." Hit her like a truck.

"What do you mean?" Kozume asked when she couldn't. His voice was hard, like a steel edge pushed against his own mother.

"When we paid for the funeral, the funeral home gave me all of the documents related to his case." She sniffled, "Shouyou-kun's liver was shutting down, if he hadn't... if that night hadn't happened the way it did, his chances of surviving were already incredibly low."

She handed the documents over to her son and Kiyoko shamelessly read them over his shoulder.

"That drug he was on was killing him. They weren't sure if he was allergic to it or if his body was just rejecting it... He was going to die anyway, Kenma."

Kozume stood up as if the seat under him had caught on fire. His eyes, golden and full of pain, glared out at his parents. "Why didn't you tell me?" He whispered.

"You were hurting so much already, but you're right, I shouldn't kept it from you." Kozume Aki admitted.

They left the house shortly after, Kozume remained a quiet force at her side.

The next place they'd ended up at was one she didn't recognize, not from Shouyou's memory of her own, but when Kozume knocked at the door, she recognized him immediately. That still didn't tell her why they were here. Bokuto-san lead them into the sitting room of his home. Kiyoko sat on one end of the couch and Kozume on the other. A small child was between them and constantly glanced between them.

Bokuto was hesitant at first to give into Kozume's demands, but after a moment, the broad man didn't stop talking, even if he had little to say. There was no love for Shouyou to be had in his experience, but somehow, Bokuto had taken the other under his wing like Shouyou had belonged there. The two of them had barely shared a week together, yet he'd felt impacted enough by Shouyou to name his child after him.

Kiyoko stared down at the child between her and Kozume and pulled him into her arms. Relief flooded through her at the warm weight against her, the smiles and giggles that floated over her. She was able to let go, just a little, and said her goodbyes to her lost friend in a silent prayer. Bokuto-san was sad to see them go and cried as they pulled their shoes back on. Kiyoko felt her heart lift at that. She knows that he'd have been a good friend for Shouyou to have.

She'd be lying if that feeling didn't dissipate when they reached their next destination.

Miyagi train station was as blank and decrepit as she remembered it being, though the hatred she felt for the place might have been blinding her for just a bit.

Their first stop wasn't Shouyou's grave like she'd been expecting, however. Instead, they traveled to a house she'd never noticed before. Kozume, like all the times before, knocked on the door for them, announcing their presence to specters of the past with sharp raps against wood. Dread filled her more than it had before.

"It's you." Her old neighbor says without the bitter, harshness Kiyoko remembers from her childhood, though it does nothing against the feeling of being reverted back to the child she'd been when she lived just down the hall. Shouyou's caretaker and aunt stood in front of the door with her hand poised to slam it in their faces at any moment.

"We need to talk." Kozume says, drawing Sato's attention. Kiyoko watches her glare shift from her to Kozume.

"Who're you supposed to be." Kiyoko feels like laughing.

"Kozume Kenma." Sato's eyes go wide and she looks like she might still slam the door, but slowly, gently, it creeks open and her old neighbor waves them inside.

"Why are you here?" She asks, walking them past the sitting room and into her bedroom. The door is shut behind them. Kiyoko feels her blood pressure spike when it clicks shut.

"Tell me about Shouyou." Kozume commands.

"Not so loud!" Her eyes dart to a specific place in the room, but when Kiyoko tracks it, she doesn't find anything. Wh-what do you wanna know?"

Kozume's face cringes with suspicion. "Is she here?" He asks, leaving her confused as she tugs out her notepad and pen.

Sato's face is stricken and pale. "I never told her about him, or about you."

It's Kozume's turn to look affronted. Kiyoko would be lying if she wasn't growing used to her companion looking angered beyond consoling, at least any that she could offer.

"You never told her about him? About Shouyou?" Kozume looks like he might throw up or throw a punch, she's not sure which.

"Keep your voice down!" She warns again, hissing out at them, "She doesn't need to know about him. He's gone now, it'd only hurt her to know that he was real, that he was here."

Kiyoko feels like she might be sick as well.

Sato sighs, "I know what you must think of me. That I'm just like her. Hiding Yuukio from him, lying to him, feeding him those drugs. But anything that I say about him doesn't change the fact that he's gone. My brother is gone! Shouyou is gone! It's just me and her now. Can't you see that we're the victims here? That we've been left alone without them. I know you feel it too, Kenma. Shouyou's gone, though. He's never coming back."

Kiyoko, who'd been beginning to unravel herself, is all too glad to see her companion push past her old neighbor and make for the door. Quickly, she follows after him, stomping through the hall and towards the exit. She stops though, and Kozume does too, when she catches a glimpse of bright orange hair. The pain that stabs through her indescribable, she can't even begin to imagine how Kozume must be feeling as he finally makes it outside.

"That was a mistake." He mutters to himself once they're walking towards a more recognizable part of the city, buried as it is in slush and ice.

"I'm sorry." She says, not knowing what else to say.

"Me too." Kozume pulls his scarf tighter around his neck and makes his way towards Daichi's family home. How he knows where it is, or where any of the others lived, she has no clue, but when she's standing in front of the traditional looking home, she can't help but hesitate as she joins Kozume on the landing.

The captain to her old team only answers the door after a few minutes of Kozume rapping his knuckles against the door. She's grateful for the time it takes him to answer, but even with time to prepare for a shock she knows is coming, it does nothing for when it actually happens.

Daichi stands on the other side of the door with a forlorn expression on his face. She can tell it takes a moment for him to recognize her, but that spark doesn't extend to Kozume.

"Shimizu..." He croaks out and she flinches at the name, but doesn't correct him. "What are you doing here?"

"To talk." She answers when Kozume's silence goes on for too long. "You're looking well."

Daichi's nose crinkles and his cheeks flare up under tanned skin in the same way it did all those years ago. He grabs at his protruding stomach and laughs, "I'm fat and starting to bald, but I appreciate it anyway. Come in."

Kiyoko had only been to Daichi's home a few times, far less often than Suga or Shouyou had, but she everything looks the same as it had and she finds herself sitting down with a canned coffee at the table the third years used to study at with a small smile working its way onto her face.

"Who's your friend? Don't tell me that someone actually managed to successfully flirt with you?" Daichi questions with a smile.

"Kozume Kenma." She says and watches, partially amused, as Daichi's mouth falls open.

"I thought I aged like crap." Daichi mutters to himself once he pulls himself together, though not nearly quietly enough.

Kozume says nothing.

"Why are you really here?" Daichi questions, still staring at Kozume as he asks.

"Tell us about Shouyou." Kozume cracks.

"I... Sometimes I feel like barely knew him, like he was just a dream I'd had." The words hit Kiyoko harder than they should. Kozume seems to feel the same way. "When you told me about Oikawa, I thought you were lying, that it was all a joke and that he'd done it to himself or a stranger noticed him or something, I don't know. I'd only seen Oikawa talk to Shouyou once or twice, I didn't even know they were friends let alone...I thought that you and him were... y'know. He talked about you all the time, wore your jacket, and texted you all the time." He trails off, taking a drink from his own canned coffee, looking uncomfortable.

"I wanted to be." Kozume admits.

"Yeah." Daichi murmurs back.

"At first, I thought it'd be him and Kageyama. They spent almost all day, everyday with each other. Then he says he hates him. I thought that that was what set Shouyou off, maybe. But that's all... it's stupid."

Kozume goes quiet again, so Kiyoko guides the conversation and then catches up with her old friend; it's almost nice, but feels more somber than she imagined this reuniting would be.

"Are you and Suga still close?" She asks and almost instantly regrets it when she sees Daichi cringe and start to retreat.

"No, not really. His parents finally found him a wife, so, he's been pretty busy with that."

"I'm sorry." Kiyoko offers, but her friend just waves her off.

"If he didn't want me then, he definitely wouldn't want me now." His laugh is sad, but his eyes are more painful to bear.

"I'm sorry." She says, because she doesn't know what else to say.

When Daichi closes the door behind them. Kozume turns to her, finally, and stares at her with determination she hadn't been expecting. There was nobody left now, she was sure of that. Nobody else had managed to see the real Shouyou, nobody else knew that he and Oikawa were involved, or that his teammate is probably murdering people; except themselves, of course. Now they just needed to approach them and for that, Kiyoko was terrified. Not for the fact that she might be killed, but because of what she might hear when they were confronted. She'd be lying if she didn't admit she'd already felt some sympathy for Oikawa just from Kenma's words alone.

It might have shown on her face, but she had feeling that's why Kozume chose to approach Oikawa first, leading her through Tokyo's narrow streets with his hat pulled low on his forehead. It was late afternoon and already dark by the time he'd managed to lead them to what was, presumably, Oikawa's front door.

His apartment was in an upscale complex that looked over the city, with more windows than not.

Oikawa answered before Kenma finished knocking. His smile became a frown almost instantly and Kiyoko had a feeling he'd been expected someone else.

"Karasuno's manager?" He questions, a title she hasn't heard in quite some time.

"Kiyoko." She corrects regardless.

"And friend." Oikawa continues, "Is there a reason you two are here? I wasn't expecting any guests."

"Yeah." Kenma answers, practically growling before he's shoving into the apartment. Oikawa merely rolled his eyes as if he'd been expecting something like this and pulls the door open wider for her to enter.

Kozume refuses a seat, drink, or meal when Oikawa answers. Each question seems to goad on him as if Oikawa were taunting him.

"Why are you two here?" Oikawa eventually asks, taking a seat across from her in a chair made of white leather. His smile is present again, shining like the sun and more charming than it should be. She understands why Shouyou would be drawn in by it, but equally as intimidated by its intensity.

"You killed Shouyou." Kenma voices finally.

Oikawa looks as if he'd been assaulted. "I did."

"Why?" Kenma is close to shouting, but only just.

"I loved him!" Oikawa defends himself, taking to his feet. "You were trying to take him away! And your friend, too! All of you were."

Kozume's face remains a mask of rage. "That doesn't give you the right to kill him, to torture him in the woods and defile him!"

Oikawa's face turns even more unpleasant. "I know that. I do. I miss him, even now, I miss him." He looks close to tears, though Kiyoko had seen so many today she's not even a little tempted to wipe them away.

"You deserve to die." Kenma says, pulling out a revolver that she hadn't known he had.

Oikawa falls to his knees in front of them, his messy bangs fall in front of his face. "I know."

Everything was happening too quickly for her and she didn't like it. The lack of control. So when Kozume pressed the gun's barrel against Oikawa's crown and hesitated, she placed her hand over his. They'd faced so many ghosts today to do something like this.

"Is this right?" She has to question, because nobody else did.

"He deserves to die." Kozume says again. Tears are spilling past the bags under his eyes and down his trembling chin. The gun still doesn't go off.

"I want to see him again." Oikawa whimpers. The sound makes her a little angry.

"He wouldn't want this." Shouyou wouldn't want to see Oikawa, even if they did love each other, not like this.

They end up leaving soon after, with Kageyama's address written down and Oikawa still alive, but broken, just like them. It's disgusting, but she pities him.

Kageyama's apartment is upscale just like Oikawa's had been, only on the other end of the city. Close enough, though, that the walk from the station to his home isn't a particularly long one. The icy air whips against his face and hair, cooling down her flustered skin. It helps her recover whatever is left of her sanity. She'd been expecting this process to be slow, over weeks if not months, but seeing all of the people from her past, being back in her home country, it was overwhelming. It felt like she'd been stripped naked, all of her defenses that she'd built up had been ripped to shreds in a single night. She had to be thankful, though, that Kenma hadn't dragged her back to where she'd grown up. Just seeing that place, the idea of seeing her father, was enough to coil terror through every thought that she had. She wanted to fly back.

Kageyama took even longer than Daichi had to answer the door. He stared at them with a blank expression and flat affect that made her shiver more than the winter around them ever could.

"Shimizu-senpai." He greets with a bow, not even questioning why she's there.

"Can we come in?" She asks. Kageyama looks confused. "It's cold."

He nods mutely, and escorts them into a nearly empty apartment. From the door, she can smell sweat and the distinct smell of volleyballs. Kageyama walks them past a clean kitchen and into his sitting room. She can't help but compare it to Oikawa's, who's space had looked so similar, but furnished and warm.

"I'm surprised you remember me." She says, tucking herself into the sofa. Somehow, it was even colder inside Kageyama's apartment than it was outside of it.

"Hinata liked you, and that other girl." Kageyama explains. She hadn't remembered him being so creepy, just intense and young.

"We all miss him." She assures, unsure what to say.

"I don't miss him."

At he side, Kenma's body stiffens up.

"He was sleeping with Oikawa-senpai. Hinata was... disgusting."

Kiyoko stands, "You shouldn't talk about your teammate like that."

His impossible blue eyes shine like medallions beneath the ocean when they turn on her. "I hated him."

 _BLAM!_ The sound makes her shake in boots, her knees threaten to buckle too, and she forces herself to sit down and look away as Kageyama falls to his knees and buckles backwards. He gasps once, raspy and gurgling, then falls quiet once his body slumps to the floor. Again, she feels like throwing up, but resists the urge.

Kenma leaves her where she is and she watches as he tears through Kageyama's practically empty apartment like a force of nature. He pulls out drawers swiftly and throws them back into place just as quickly. Eventually, he disappears into the back-most rooms and comes back with things she barely recognizes. They don't take anything, nor do they move Kageyama's body. She doesn't know what Kozume had been up to in Kageyama's apartment, but when he pulls her to her feet, she falls too easily into his arms as he walks her away.

Kozume sends her back home on the red eye, but doesn't come with her. And it's not until months later that she discovers what the man had been up to.

A letter comes in the mail from Japan, though it's written in English, and she knows it's from him.

 **"Volleyball Star Turned Murderer Killed in Home"** Most of the article is missing, but she reads through it regardless. Kageyama's name is also in bold, along with a picture of him before he'd been killed. He looks pleased, so unlike the man she'd seen all those nights ago. He looks normal, too, and human. Kiyoko had a hard time believing that he did anything like the article said, just from looking at her face. The names of his victims were released too, in very small print at the bottom. Shouyou's name was among them.

Part of her wants to send a correction back to whatever company had printed the article, but she knows that it wouldn't do any good. Nothing written about Kageyama reflected how terrible he was, or the mistakes he made, or the lives he took. Kageyama was written about like he was a hero, praising his achievements for several paragraphs that didn't reflect how much of a monster he'd become. It made her sick to read it.

Kiyoko did not attend the funeral of her old teammate, even when Daichi had somehow managed to get her address.

Kenma told her, much later, that there wasn't any forensic evidence found at the scene and they were free to go. She invited him back to spend the holidays with her, but she found it difficult to look at him the same as she did when he had first shown up in her sitting room. Still, they were happy. They shared memories of someone they'd lost over wine and meat buns, taking in the sights and wondered what Shouyou would have thought of it all.

Sometimes it felt like he was still there, hanging in the air and smiling on them. She hoped that he was happy for them.


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

Shouyou wakes up with his face pressed against the ground. When he opens his eyes, he gasps for breath and feels his lungs fill for what feels like the first time. Pulling himself to his knees, then his feet, he stares out around him but finds nothing but darkness. Save, of course, for the floor below him, which is glowing brightly red. It's carved with characters he doesn't recognize that spiral outwards.

"You are awake." A voice calls out from the darkness.

"Y-yeah..." Shouyou answers back. For some reason, he can almost recognize whoever is talking.

"This one was shorter than I'd been expecting." The voice says again.

"I'm not short!" He shouts back and listens to the echo of his own voice.

"I was not referring to your statue, little one." The voice says with a laugh.

All at once, the scenery changes. The blackness around him becomes a little less intense, shifting into a shade of purple he can't name. Then, a figure appears in front of him. It has no distinct features, not ones that he can comprehend anyway, with large, stretched out wings that seem to go on forever in either direction. Shouyou was tempted to run his fingers across them, to see if they were as soft as they looked, but couldn't find the courage to do anything but stand still.

"Are you prepared to start again?" The figure questions.

Shouyou is confused, but nods regardless.

A flash of white. Then he's back home, mostly, running along a path he doesn't recognize. A boy is leaning against a fence. His eyes are impossibly gold, his jacket is impossible red. There are volleyball shoes in a bag at his side. Shouyou feels his cheeks heating up in a blush. The person is beautiful in a way he can't get over. When he opens his mouth to speak, to introduce himself, nothing comes out. The boy, Kenma is his name, is nice to him, still, even when he can't talk. Shouyou uses his hands to express himself, to share himself with the other, and Kenma picks up on it quickly. They become friends quickly and rivals even faster. Kenma ignites a fire in him that he can't control, then Oikawa comes into the picture, an inferno that Hinata can't seem to pull away from. Kenma is still there though, pressing his lips against his, wrapping his arms around his waist and holding him through his nightmares. It all ends with a pain beyond comprehension.

Shouyou returns to the platform below him, with the purple sky and red floor. The shadowy figure curls his wings around him and asks if he wants to start again.

Shouyou nods.

His leg is missing, but not bleeding, replaced with plastic and metal. He's slowing down when it starts hurting and stumbles upon a stranger in an alley. His hair and eyes are made out of sunlight, but his chest is coated in crimson. Volleyball shoes are in a bag at his side and Shouyou lifts his hands in greeting, introducing himself wordlessly. Kenma is quick to catch on, though, using his mellow voice to communicate in return. Kenma wraps his jacket around his shoulders and Shouyou finds himself blushing. Kenma is a good rival but a better friend. After they finish practicing together, Kenma unhooks his leg for him and massages his stump; it's impossibly erotic and the first time he pushes his lips against Kenma's, they both end up with nosebleeds. Even still, he ends up meeting Oikawa, who carries him to the bathroom when they're sharing the same gym, who gushes over him and presses kisses against what's left of his leg. Those same lips tear into his throat in the fall and those same kisses are the last thing he feels as he fades.

The figure pulls him tight, but asks him if he wants to go again.

Shouyou agrees.

And agrees.

And agrees.

At some point, he can't even reach the other anymore, but those golden eyes still manage to find him. And, even if Shouyou can't see anymore, he still feels that loving gaze wash over him.

Eventually, he has nothing left to give. The shadowy figure with wings like a crows had already taken everything from him. He could no longer walk himself, see, or feel.

He just was.

Only then did he ask for it all to stop.

Still, even as the shadowed figure held onto him, letting him walk through his old lives, of his first meeting with Kenma and every one after, he still feels the need to keep going. He doesn't though. He lets Kenma finally rest, to live a life without him. One where he stays with his best friend and lives with him, one where he doesn't hurt and doesn't kill. He smiles and laughs, and lives his life. Shouyou would be lying if it didn't hurt to watch, but he does. He watches every life that he isn't in.

Sometimes, he watches over Toru too. Watches him suffering and crying, but still captivating and beyond impressive. A part of him still loves him, is still a part of Oikawa himself, even when he belongs entirely to Kenma.

Kiyoko is another one that he pays special attention to, but each time he glances into her life, he cries against the wings holding him together and he's forced to stop.

His other friends and teammates make him smile and laugh, and cry sometimes.

But his eye always drifts back to Kenma, his greatest friend and love. His red-clad shield.

Shouyou's own Crimson Aegis.


End file.
